LIZ

line cook!abby has two different modes during a lunch or dinner rush: weirdly calm and terrifyingly competent or one minor inconvenience away from burning the entire restaurant down.

line cook!abby works the grill and flat-top primarily, usually alongside her roommate (and best friend) manny. the two of them argue like an old married couple most of the time, which you find hilarious.

line cook!abby has a personal beef with ticket machine. she had broken at least 5 in the entire time she’s worked there, and marlene tells her that the next one is coming out of her paycheck. but it never actually does.

line cook!abby who says things like, “behind”, “move”, “corner” like a drill sergeant.

line cook!abby’s work uniform consists of an array of oversized band tees or cut off tees, cargo shorts or sweatpants and a bleach stained apron. she wears her hair in a neat braid down the middle of her back, or in a messy bun. but if her hair is pissing her off that day she’ll throw it into a low ponytail, put on a backwards dad hat and call it good enough.

line cook!abby apparently “has a thing for pretty waitresses” according to manny. but the only waitress she’s ever been soft on is you.

line cook!abby is addicted to caffeine. she cannot go a whole shift without pounding at least two energy drinks or an extra large iced coffee.

line cook!abby constantly checks to make sure you’ve eaten during your shift. and if you try to tell her you’re too busy or you forgot? suddenly a basket of fries or a grilled cheese will appear next to you while you’re ringing in an order at the kiosk. and she’ll mumble a stern, “go eat. now.” before disappearing back behind the line like it’s no big deal.

line cook!abby who runs extremely hot. if she’s not on the line you can usually find her in the walk-in trying to cool herself off and grumbling about how, “marlene needs to fix the damn air conditioner already.”

line cook!abby is always in control of the aux in the kitchen when she’s working and is not afraid to smack anyone who tries to change the music. you and manny can usually tell what kind of mood she’s in by what genre of music she’s playing. so if creed, matchbox twenty or theory of a deadman is blaring when you clock in, you already know she’s been having a rough afternoon.

line cook!abby wears her irritation and annoyance plainly on her face. she’s snarky and short with almost everyone, but the minute you ask for something? she visibly softens, and does whatever you asked for without question.

“abs, can I get another basket of fries, please?” and with a soft flutter of your lashes or a warm smile, she’s folding immediately—dumping a fresh batch of fries into a basket and sliding them into the expo window without uttering a single complaint.

“christ, you are so fucking whipped, cariño.”

line cook!abby keeps a bandana in her back pocket or a clean towel draped over her shoulder to be able to wipe the sweat from her face throughout her shift. the one time she didn’t seem to have one and had to use the hem of her t-shirt, you nearly dropped an entire tray of food.

line cook!abby has the biggest praise kink. you tell her something she made was delicious? instantly bashful, ears turning pink as she ducks her head and tries to pretend you didn’t just turn her insides to mush. and you’re absolutely tucking that information away for later.

line cook!abby gets weirdly possessive over kitchen tools. she once threatened manny that she’d scrub their toilet with his toothbrush if he ever touched her knives again.

line cook!abby absolutely cannot flirt like a normal person. so she shows her affection in subtle ways like: not complaining or giving you shit when you mess up an order, carrying the ice bucket up to the bar for you because it’s “painful to watch you struggle”, staying late to help you roll silverware after she finishes her own closing duties, playing paramore’s entire discography during a shift that you’re both working together just because she heard you tell leah that they’re one of your favorite bands.

line cook!abby always walks you to your car if the two of you are scheduled to close together. even if she finishes her closing duties faster than you.

line cook!abby absolutely despises remakes or substitutions on orders, and she’s not afraid to let someone know just how much it annoys her.

“the menu says no substitutions, can’t people fucking read?”

“abby, they’re literally allergic to onions.”

“sounds like a personal problem.”

line cook!abby always has a toothpick or pen shoved behind her ear, or stuck in between her teeth. she’s also constantly chewing gum—mostly because she knows it annoys the hell out of manny but baby girl has a oral fixation. she just doesn’t want to admit it.

line cook!abby will absolutely complain about having to close, but it’s secretly her favorite shift to work. especially if you’re on the schedule.

line cook!abby takes a lot of pride in her work, even when she’s slammed and is glaring at every new ticket that comes through like they personally insulted her. but even then she never lets a plate go out on the floor looking like a damn mess.

the one exception she ever made was the time your ex came in and made it their personal mission to make your night a living hell. so when she found you crying in the walk-in not long after, she ‘accidentally’ let that burger burn to a crisp before sending it out with a satisfied smirk.

line cook!abby who always seems to smell like a combination of fresh citrus, old spice and smoke from the grill, no matter how often she washes her clothes.

line cook!abby is constantly burning her hands on something. half the time she doesn’t really react anymore besides cursing under her breath or mumbling a barely audible, “yeah that was fucking dumb, abigail.” to herself.

but if you are in the back when it happens? you’ll insist on helping her bandage it until she finally relents with the most adorable scowl.

line cook!abby is terrible at hiding her jealousy. while she doesn’t cause a scene, or become overly possessive—if she sees a customer flirting with you, she absolutely makes it everyone else’s problem.

she’s slamming pans harder than necessary, muttering constant curses under her breath at the grill, shouting for “someone to run this fucking food already!” the second it appears in the expo window. lev finds it a little too hilarious and is always roasting her when he’s bringing clean dishes up from the pit.

line cook!abby is extremely sentimental. you wrote her a little thank you note on the back of a discarded receipt once before you two started dating and she still has it taped to the inside of her locker.

line cook!abby isn’t big on pda, but when she realizes how much her touch seems to affect you, she makes any and every excuse to get her hands on you when you’re working together. whether it’s a hand against the small of your back as she passes behind you in the kitchen, curling a finger into the loop of your jeans to pull you out of the way when another staff member is dashing around the corner, sneaking up behind you to rest her chin on your shoulder when you’re ringing an order in.

she thinks she’s being subtle most of the time, but abby is about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.

10 missed calls.

12 text messages.

ellie woke up to the sound of her phone vibrating itself off the nightstand.

ellie groaned, letting her head fall back against the pillows as her phone buzzed again beside her. she didn’t need to check the screen to know it was you.

then she rolled over.

4:22 pm.

ellie shot upright so fast the room spun.

“no, no, no,” she muttered, pushing herself upright and scrolling frantically through your messages.

"wowww"

"guess i got stood up"

"should i order without you or is that rude"

"i look like an idiot"

"ellie. i swear."

"i hate you"

despite herself, ellie smiled. that was definitely you.

she had just got back from her last class, checked her watch 3:20 pm. she only meant to lie down for a minute. power nap. her shoes still on, hoodie pulled over her hand, jeans on.

apparently her body had other plans.

"overslept baby"

she typed quickly, fingers clumsy. "i’m so sorry. please don’t be mad."

the response came instantly.

"mad? no."

"deeply offended, actually."

"you hate me"

ellie huffed a quiet laugh, already standing, running a hand through her tussled up hair.

"five minutes away" she lied. "maybe seven."

"uh huh." you type. "you owe me." you sat in the coffee shop, your mood already sour. you've been waiting for her for fifteen minutes, which doesn't seem long, but for you, it was.

you watch the time on your phone, five minutes pass. you dial her number. she lets it ring a little too long, too busy jogging all the way down her dorm before she answers it.

"baby! hi. hi. sorry, i'm on my way already." ellie says, out of breathe.

"i'm so mad at you. i can't even— i told you four o clock."

"i know babygirl—i know. i overslept. i was tired from my last class."

"yeah, right."

"it's on me. i'll make it up to you."

you scoff, hanging up on her and going back to scrolling on your phone, looking out the window every so often to look for ellie.

the bell over the café door chimed, and ellie stepped inside, slightly out of breath, hoodie wrinkled, hair sticking up in a way that definitely proved she’d just woken up.

your eyes flicked up immediately.

you rolled your eyes then you looked away.

on purpose.

she slowed down, walking over to the back of the coffee shop. she stopped in front of you, a sheepish grin on her face. she ducks down a bit, kissing your cheek, not once but twice for good measure.

"hi honey." she said softly, sitting beside you in the booth, hands immediately coming up to your waist as she kisses your neck.

you shut your phone off, unimpressed.

"wow. this is what feels like to be forgotten."

ellie winced, but she was smiling. “i didn’t forget you.” she continues peppering your neck with soft kisses.

"oh?" you glance at her, then at your watch. "because it's been..twenty five minutes actually."

"thirty actually."

"so you counted? don't get smart with me ellie." you said, nudging her with your shoulder softly.

"yes ma'am."

that got you to look at her properly, lips twitching like you were fighting a smile. you held out your half empty cup.

"this got cold by the way."

"i'll get you another one, don't worry."

"i really wasn't."

"fine, so you don't want one?" she says, looking up from your neck to give you that smart ass grin that she knows gets under your skin.

"ellie, i swear—" she cuts you off with a soft peck.

"i was kidding, i'll get you one." she stands up from the booth, hand still attached to yours as she pulls her wallet out.

"with oat milk." you say softly, holding onto one of her fingers. "with oat milk." she repeats, smiling softly.

you leaned back in the cushion, watching her with open satisfaction. “and the muffin?”

ellie glanced at the plate. “that one’s still whole.”

“yeah, because it’s yours,” you said. “you overslept. you eat the consequences.”

ellie laughed, quiet and fond, then bent down slightly so she was closer to your face. “you’re evil.”

“you love it.”

she did. god, she did.

ellie came back, fresh coffee in hand, chocolate muffin in the other. she grins, as she sits in back down beside you. you push the other muffin to her, and sip your coffee.

she takes a bite of the muffin, eyes glued to you with the most fond, genuine smile ever.

"so. apology." you said in a calm, quiet manner, swirling your coffee.

ellie swallowed, then leaned forward, elbow on the table as she faced you. “i’m really sorry i overslept baby. i wanted to see you. i swear.”

you hummed, unconvinced. “that’s it?”

she smiled, soft and real. “i missed you, really. i missed you a ton babygirl.”

that did it.

your expression cracked just a little, bratty edge melting into something warmer. you reached out, hand holding hers under the table.

“next time,” you said, “i’m calling you until you answer.”

ellie squeezed your ankle gently. “i’d like that.” you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, wide and easy.

bratty or not, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

It was a dark, and very boring Wednesday night. Your phone was on do not disturb, and the blunt in your hand was freshly rolled. The room was lit up ever so slightly, the brown floor lamp dim in the corner of your living room. The netflix show you decided to binge had been off for a while–the noise of the air blowing out of your Playstation was loud, signaling that it was time to get a new one.

All you had on was a white camisole, that clinged to your braless tits, making your nipples hard in the below freezing living room. Your black lace panties had just been slipped back on, considering the session you just had with yourself before you rolled this blunt.

Your necklaces clung to your sweaty skin, the mixture of sweat and your Prada perfume creating a different kind of smell, one you didn’t mind. It smelled like sex–in a good way.

You felt so lonely on nights like these, fresh out of a situationship with the one girl you thought was your ‘number-one-sex-candidate’, Paige Bueckers. The two of you cut it off after she caught you fucking around with other people–but man, do you regret it. You thought about the way she felt inside you, which was the cause of your panties being long gone a while ago. It was to the point you bought a dark blue dildo to match her strap, just so it could feel like she was dicking you down all over again. You screamed her name, spelled her name out when your fingers were inside yourself–for a situationship, you were clearly obsessed with her.

The amount of times you wished you could just pick up the phone, tell her you needed her, wanted to make her head so big, that she would come over and fuck you just to prove a point. You had all this weed to yourself, and you felt like you needed the company. She was pissed when you went to someone else to get off, fucking all her anger out before blocking you on everything completely. She hit every angle inside of you, fucking you so deep while you were in missionary, forcing you to tell her that nobody could fuck you like she could.

And she made you feel how stupid you were for fucking someone else.

The girl was a random, it was an honest mistake, really. The one night your body craved another body on top of it, the temperature rising every time you climaxed. You were impatient. Paige was on a trip with her team, all the way in Turks and Caicos, without you. Out of the couple conversations the two of you did have, you vividly remember her telling you she wouldn’t be back for at least a week–but you couldn’t wait that long to be fucked.

You needed it now.

But being greedy gets you nowhere, because that night–the night you went out on a solo date, so bored and horny… just aching for Paige to come back home to you–there was this girl, not only was she charming and sweet, she looked just like Paige.

You seduced her with ease, downing a couple shots back to back, tipsy enough to feel on her with every thing being reciprocated. You could tell she liked you, and that made things so much easier on your end. After a couple more shots between the two of you, you took her back to your apartment–her tongue was deep inside of your mouth as soon as you hit the door, and before you knew it–your back was arching off the fabric of your couch, with her head between your legs, slurping every drop of your pussy.

She dicked you down good, too. But it was never how Paige did you. Paige knew exactly what angles to hit, how to curve it inside you just right–and she knew how to make you cum in under five minutes, tops. She knew how to make you loud, and keep you quiet–and when she fucked you… it sent you to a whole different dimension.

This one night stand knew how to fuck, but you missed Paige. You missed the way her voice got all low when she was inside, whispering to you like other people could hear her. It was like some type of love spell, and at one point you almost told her you loved her mid-stroke. Sometimes you used to think that if you ever did, she just might say it back–and that sat just fine with you.

The night she had living proof you fucked someone else–she was furious. It was past midnight, a little after your “one-night-stand”, and you tried your best to hide how fucked out you were. Your hair was messy, clothes all over the floor. You tried to play it off as just being lazy when Paige came over, since she knew you had been busy with all the things you were juggling at the moment. But Paige doesn’t forget anything. Not a single thing.

That night she arrived at your apartment, she stripped you of everything immediately. She was craving you like crazy, so much as ripping the new pair of Victoria Secret panties she had just bought you, and kissing down your hips slowly. Her lips were so soft, and the very lightly tinted lip balm she had on left marks on your thighs. The way her lips pecked against you made you wet, as she did nothing but speak absolutely reckless in your ear.

She was making her way back up to your tits–when she saw things she never wanted to see. There was a fresh hickey on your right boob, not even bruised all the way yet. One thing about Paige–she never forgot what she left on your body. Didn’t forget not a single mark, hickey, scratch–nothing. Paige had a system when it came down to fucking you–it was a job only she did, she could leave whatever she wanted on you, and you’d beg for more–Every. Single. Time.

But this right here, it set her off completely. Of course she was mad–you were giving her pussy up this easy, acting like every time she fucked your brains out, it meant nothing. She made you pay for it that night too, and it puts you in the same predicament every time when you think about it–stripping yourself naked, lying on the plush mattress with the same vibrator you seemed to use six times out of the seven days of the week. You couldn’t resist her, really–that sexiness in her voice was so addictive, and don’t even start on the tapes you made. They were still in your hidden album inside of your camera roll, and you found yourself visiting that album tonight.

So here you were, a fresh blunt after completely obliterating yourself, over a girl you didn’t know even wanted to fuck you again. But nothing was impossible. So much so, that you lit your blunt, took a puff, and picked up your phone. It might’ve seemed like you were the only obsessed one between the two of you–but in reality, it wasn’t just you. See, Paige had every right to keep you blocked on every platform, but she didn’t. She blocked you for a little while, then all of a sudden, she re-saved your contact, unblocked you on all her socials–just to make sure she could watch you closely. Better yet, watch you suffer without her.

You were tired of being a pussy, so you went to your contacts, and scrolled all the way down to the “P” section–passing some family members with the same letter, and seeing her name. Her contact picture was the two of you in her mirror, her standing behind you in nothing but a black tee and boxers, and you, in one of her t-shirts and your own panties–your bra across the room. You loaded the messages between you two, the last thing that was said was her calling you a “greedy slut”, since apparently, you were so desperate for sex.

come over?

please?

Radio silence.

You sat your phone back down on your couch, and after about twelve minutes passes–you felt the small vibration of a notification. You knew it wasn’t just any notification though, knowing your do not disturb didn’t let anything through. It was Paige.

What happened to your other bitch

She must couldn’t make you cum

Yeah ik 😂

Her ego turned you on so bad. More than anything. The way she knew you couldn’t live without her touch, her kisses, her fingers, her pussy, her strap. Little did you know, she was craving you too, and thinking about your body turned her on too. There were so many nights she’d snatch her boxers clean off–quickly pulling up one of your old sex tapes, moaning your name softly, pumping her fingers in and out of her pussy. Paige wasn’t even the type to feel this way about any girl, especially when they went out fucking other girls. But you, you were something different–out of her comfort zone. Not only did she fuck you good, you fucked her good, too. She never let anybody else touch her body like you did, never let anyone below her belt, unless she was in control completely.

A couple minutes passed once again, and your phone started buzzing. You turned it over, screen faced up, and watched the bold letters appear. It was Paige, and you picked up the phone, trying to process the thought of her even wanting to contact you again.

You let it ring a couple more times, finally clicking the green button.

*Hello?”*

*...*

*”You still stay inna same apartment?”

*”Rent too good to leave, Paige. Why you ask?”*

*”Yo address still 926?”*

*”Mhm.”*

*”I’m onna way.”*

And right after that, Paige hung up the phone. You didn’t know what to do, the two of you hadn’t seen each other in two weeks, let alone spoken to each other. But her voice, that raspy, sexy, sound had your panties hanging on for dear life. You missed that voice, bad. And that same voice, along with Paige Bueckers herself, was on the way to your apartment. Who knows what she was gonna do to you? Was she there to argue? Make up for lost time? Kiss you? Hug you? Fuck you?

It was all intriguing to you, but that little voice inside your head was slightly frightened. The last time you two saw each other, she fucked your guts crazy. And if she was down with fucking you senseless while you two were beefing, who knows what she’d do when it’s been a while. A while since she’s seen your body, been a minute since she’s kissed and held it. You didn’t know what you were getting into tonight, but you were prepared for whatever there was to come.

You got up from your couch, and quickly ran some hot shower water. You scrubbed your body down, and went over the hairs you missed on your legs, making them smooth as butter. You dried off, rubbing all the special and expensive body oils all over your body. You smelled heavenly, your body absolutely radiant under your vanity lights. You applied your skincare, making all your face slick and shiny, with the smallest swipe of lash serum on both of your eyelids.

You didn’t know if you wanted to be casual or sexy, even though you figured you knew what she was coming over for–you didn’t want to assume. You threw on something simple, a big tee and the cutest panties you had. Throwing your hair up, you strutted back to the living room to re-light your blunt. You wanted to seem more relaxed, and the smoke you blew out was doing just that. You inhaled, exhaled, and repeated. Your body felt calm and collected, and ready for any and every thing.

You knew Paige lived decently far from your apartment, and that’s why she insisted on driving to see you every time you two linked. It was easier on her. It took you a good hour to get all the way ready, and for a second you thought Paige was flaking to get back at you once more. But your doubts were shut down right after they popped in your head, because a couple seconds later, there was the faintest knock on your front door. You dusted your shirt off, and kept the blunt in hand. You sashayed over to the door, and you took a peek into your peephole. It was her, in all her glory.

Her hair was in a low bun, with a black beanie over it. She had on her glasses, and you had a feeling she remembered you told her you liked them on her. Her gray Essentials sweatpants were low on her hips, with the drawstrings untied. Her Calvin Klein boxers peeked ever so slightly above her waistband. She had her keys in between her fingers, and the veins throughout her hands were popping out like she was ready to get her blood drawn. You took a breath, and unlocked the door.

The door clicked, and all Paige could do was stare up and down your body. You leaned on the doorframe, and took a hit of your blunt in front of her. A small smirk creeped upon her face, and she reached her two fingers out to take a hit from it as well.

“You gotta come inside, if you wanna smoke my weed.” You said, the tone in your voice causing Paige to lick her lips.

“That’s the only reason you want me to come inside?” Paige asks, stepping past you and setting her keys down on your granite countertop.

“Is there any other reason you’re at my apartment this late?” You tease, handing her the blunt. She takes a long drag, maintaining eye contact while she exhales. She made everything look so sexy to you, the smallest things had your pussy tingling through your panties. She handed your blunt back to you, and sat manspread on your couch. Her long arm was extended across the back of it, and her hand rested on her thigh.

“You look pretty.” Paige huffed, that smirk popping back up on her tanned face.

“Thank you, Paige.” You giggled, but you wanted to know the real reason she was here. Was it sex? Or to sit around and tease all night? Because you could easily do both.

“Why’re you here, Paige.” You say, inhaling the substance from your blunt once more. You dipped it in the ashtray and got comfortable in your spot.

“I can’t come see you?” She asks, throwing her hands up in defense.

“Didn’t know you still wanted to see me, P.” You sigh, dropping your head down in disappointment.

Paige picked your chin up, and looked you straight in your eyes. Your eyes were tinted pink, and your lashes drooped low on your eyelids. The weed was getting settled in your system–and Paige could tell. She stroked your jaw, and brought you into her lap. You let her do whatever she wanted with you, and it always worked out in your favor. She held on to your hip, and took the blunt from out of your fingertips. She took a drag, and pulled your bottom lip down with her finger.

“Open.”

You opened your mouth, and she blew the smoke into your mouth so you could inhale it. Then as you take it all in, her lips connected with yours, and all you could feel was her tongue fighting against yours. You pulled away and stared at her, but all she could do was smile at you.

“I can show you I still fuck with you, mama.” Paige whispers, grabbing any of the meat of your bare ass that wasn’t covered by your panties, and just rubbing it to her liking.

“I missed this ass too, baby.” Paige says, her voice low, making you smile.

You took the blunt back from her, inhaling, and exhaling into her mouth. She stuck her tongue in your mouth, and saliva dripped down from both of you. Paige was groping your ass harder each kiss, forcing your hips to grind down on her lap, leaving your panties damp. She hooked her long fingers on your panties, tapping your legs to lift them up, so she could take the fabric that was covering nothing, right off of you.

She threw your panties on the floor, and felt on the slick of your pussy.

“You get wetter every time I pull up to this apartment, I see.” She teases you, and makes circles around your clit. She rubs and rubs, stimulating every inch of your body until you can’t physically take it anymore. That was her signature. She wanted to overstimulate you every chance she got, because watching you fall apart was heaven on Earth. She slowly slides two fingers in your pussy, pumping in and out so she could watch you squirm.

She was whispering all kinds of shit in your ear, and that was one of your favorite parts. She knew how to talk you through every position, every angle, every orgasm.

“Ride these fingers, baby. C’mon.” Paige whispers, moving your hips back and forth against her digits. The sound of your pussy was ungodly, and it was music to Paige’s ears. “How could you have given all this away so easily?” You thought to yourself. Paige was the only one who could make you fold like this, and you were so stupid to have given up her pussy like that. And so here you were, riding her fingers like your life depended on it–waiting for her to tell you to cum at any second.

But all of a sudden, her fingers stop moving inside of you. All the passion came to a halt. She pulled her fingers out of your pussy, her fingers halfway soaked. She maintained eye contact, and sucked her fingers clean. Paige kissed you, hard. Her tongue was back in your mouth, and the two of you were fighting for power. But Paige needed this right now. She needed your body.

She pulled away from your mouth, and lifted you up right from her lap. She looked down at your pantless body, and took your hand. She led you to your own bedroom, the same room she fucked you in so many times. It was a room she missed.

You made it to the door, and Paige stood at the doorframe, admiring the room she once fucked you over eight times in one night in. You were so shy all of a sudden, seeing her tall frame standing against the door. Her boxers showing, her eyes low and droopy–it was like a wet dream.

She walked towards you, looking down at your body–scanning it like the rough draft of an essay. She got so close to your face again, with the stench of weed and her Valentino perfume flooding your nose.

“Arms up.” Paige demands, lightly massaging your shoulder. You lifted your arms up, and she took off the oversized shirt that covered your body. She couldn’t do anything but bite her lip at the sight of you, your beautiful plush tits, and the small tattoo on your collarbone. She bent down, grabbing your chin. She turned your head, and kissed down your neck while the two of you stood there.

“Y’know how you can make all this up to me?” Paige asks.

“Mmm..how, baby?” You moan quietly, your hands tangling in the wavy strands of her hair.

“Let me use you.” Paige mutters, while leaving a fresh hickey on the side of your neck.

She stopped kissing your neck, and grabbed your hips. She backed you into your mattress, and pushed you ever so slightly. You were completely naked, looking up at her. You squeezed your legs together, every single movement you made, any type of pressure–it was all getting you closer to cumming.

“Take em’ off me.” Paige directed, gesturing to the sweatpants clinging to her long legs. You blinked–getting all shy on her again. You stared up at her once more, brushing the loose strands of hair out of your face.

“I’m not gon’ ask you again, mama.” She grabbed your jaw, and it made you moan instantly. You pulled down her sweatpants slowly, watching her thighs twitch from the cool air. Her pants reached to her ankles, and your heart was beating so fast, you could’ve sworn Paige could hear it thumping. Then came her boxers, they were navy blue with the Calvin Klein logo on the waistband, and once you pulled them down, you could feel your mouth salivating at the sight of Paige’s pussy.

She was practically dripping, the wetness was hidden away in her discarded boxers. You took one look at how wet she got for you, and completely lost any sense you had left. You gripped her thighs, and dipped your head into her crotch. You lapped at her pussy, using your tongue to pleasure the woman who always had the nerve to look this good.

“Fuck, mama. Eat this pussy, baby.” Paige moaned, gripping the back of your head, and pushing it deeper and deeper between her legs–forcing your tongue further inside her pussy. The veins were practically popping out of her hands, and she was pulling your hair so hard–but it felt so good. She moaned and moaned in your ears, practically riding your face. Her face was scrunched up, and you could tell she was reaching her limit.

You broke free from her, slowly retracting your tongue from inside of her. Her head was thrown back, until she felt you coming to a stop. She looked down at you, her anger slowly fading into her face. She jerked your head back, looking at you with her eyebrows furrowed.

“The fuck is you doin’?” She exclaimed, her voice raspy from never holding back when she moaned, and bending down to look at you, eye-to-eye.

You bit your lip at the sight–her face red, and her plush lips pink from all the kissing the two of you did.

“Lay back.” You told her, standing up before her, and switching spots with her. She was sitting on your bed, her pants and boxers laid out on the floor. She scooted back against your headboard, and snatched her white tee off in the process. She threw it across your room, planning on never putting it on again for a while. She slouched slightly, and watched as you slowly rubbed on your body, and crawled across your bed to meet her.

She looked up at you in amazement, casing and staring at your body like it was a champions trophy. She missed all of you. You placed yourself on her lap, and the small moan that erupted from her mouth was sinful. You grinded on her good, the two of your pussies connecting with so much ease. She grabbed your hips, and started pushing you down on her lap further and further. The sound was ridiculous, the squelching between the two of you echoed throughout the room–your pussies wetter than they had ever been before.

“You missed this pussy, baby?” You moaned out, Paige giving a head nod.

“Tell me you missed it, don’t nod.” You demanded, moving your hips faster.

“Okay. Okay, baby–fuck. I missed this pussy, mama. Damn.” Paige yelled out, her face growing pinker every grind. Her pussy was wet, and it felt so soft against yours. This is what felt right. You smiled at her, grabbing her shoulders, and slapping your body against hers. Her eyes were rolling back, and her mouth was slowly opening. Moans couldn’t even form anymore, it felt so good–that no sound could escape Paige’s mouth.

“Y’close, baby?” You whispered, before throwing your head back from the sensation of your pussy taking over your whole body.

“So, so, close. Lemme… fuck. Lemme hold you, mama.” Paige said, holding your back, and pressing herself against you. You slammed your pussy against hers, until the both of you came undone together. It was everywhere, on your stomach, her thighs, your sheets.

You kissed her sloppily, then eventually slowing down. The two of you laid on the side of your bed that wasn’t wet, and stared at your apartment’s popcorn ceiling. Paige looked down at the mess you made, and turned over to look at you.

“Do you love me?” She asks, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

“I do love you.” You answer, turning and facing her.

“You not gon’ give my pussy up to no lame again, are you?” She asks sternly, biting her jaw.

“Never.”

“Aight, well. I love you too, then.” Paige says, smirking.

She pulled your body closer to hers, and you drifted into a deep sleep shortly after.

The next morning, Paige gathered her things, and you woke up to an empty bed. You figured she would just play you again, since fucking someone else obviously made her mad. A couple hours passed, and you made right with your feelings–assuming Paige wouldn’t be back, and the conversation last night was just an ‘after-sex fantasy’.

There was a knock on your door, and when you answered it–she smiled at you. Backpack on her back, and an extra bag in hand.

You were six months old the first time your parents took you to a UConn women’s basketball game.

It was snowing the way it only snows in Connecticut—fat flakes thick and wet and falling like they’re on a mission. The windshield wipers thudded in rhythm, clearing the view of the highway as your mother turned around in the passenger seat to check on you. You were bundled up like a marshmallow, cheeks red and nose runny, a navy blue knit hat barely staying on your head. Your father joked that you looked like a baby blueberry. He said it again to make your mom laugh. You didn't know what a blueberry was.

You don’t remember anything about that day, of course. But your parents tell the story like it’s folklore. The way your eyes stayed wide the whole time. How you flinched at the first buzzer and cried through the first half, but fell asleep in your mom’s arms during the third quarter, lips curled around your pacifier while the arena roared around you. You wore a onesie that said “Husky Baby” in sparkly white letters. It was too big. You drooled on it.

They say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner that night. Your dad still has the program tucked into a shoebox with your birth bracelet and a print-out of your first ultrasound. On the cover, she’s mid-dribble, eyes locked forward like she already knows what the defense is about to do. He says the crowd lost its mind when she let that last shot fly, that your mom stood up and screamed so loud you startled awake, blinking up at the scoreboard like you were trying to understand.

They tell that story every year on your birthday.

Your childhood unspooled in quarters and halves. Seasons marked not just by holidays or school breaks, but by game days and rankings, by conference titles and March. You lived in Hartford, close enough that Gampel Pavilion and the XL Center both felt like second homes. You learned the names of the players before you learned to spell. There was no question who your favorite team was. No debate. No compromise.

You were always in the stands—first as a bundle in your parents’ arms, later in a booster seat with your legs swinging above the concrete floor. When you were two, your mom bought you your first jersey. Number 3. Red, white, and navy. “That’s Diana,” your dad told you. You didn’t know who Diana was, but you liked the way the fabric felt and how the crowd would chant when anyone wearing that jersey touched the ball.

Eventually, you knew them all by heart. Not just Taurasi but Bird and Moore and Charles, names that hung from the rafters like prayers. You could trace the line of greatness with a finger, like a constellation. At night, you’d sit at the kitchen table with your dad and rewatch recorded games on VHS, rewinding big plays over and over. He’d freeze the frame to show you the footwork, the spacing, the cuts. You didn’t play basketball yourself. Not once. But you understood it. You loved it.

When your parents couldn’t take you, you took the bus. That started around age ten. They were hesitant at first, but you convinced them. It was just a few stops. You packed your bag like it was a mission. Portable charger, extra snacks, schedule printout folded neatly in the side pocket. You became a fixture in the student sections, though you were nowhere near college age yet. People started recognizing you. Security guards waved. Some of the ushers called you “Coach.” You wore that like a badge of honor.

Your room at home was a shrine. Posters taped unevenly to the wall. Ticket stubs lined up on your cork board. You made your own stat charts, color-coded by player. Your mom shook her head affectionately every time she caught you annotating a box score like it was sacred text.

“You know this isn’t your homework, right?” she’d tease. “It is,” you’d say without looking up. “It’s just not graded.”

The years passed like quarters on a scoreboard. The names on the jerseys changed. The banners got higher. You grew into your voice—asking questions, reading scouting reports, predicting lineups before the broadcast even caught up. You had favorite broadcasters and hated when the national coverage got it wrong. You screamed at missed calls like you were courtside.

But you stayed in the stands.

You never crossed that line. Never picked up a ball. Never dribbled or practiced a layup or joined your school’s rec league even when they begged you to come. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to play—it just wasn’t you. Watching was enough. Worshipping the game was enough. Being there, living it from the bleachers, was enough.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Freshman year of High School doesn’t begin with a bang. It starts with a 5:45 a.m. alarm, the one you set to make sure you could catch the local bus from your side of Hartford to school on the east side before the sun even clears the tops of the houses. You sit by the window, hoodie up, earbuds in, knees pressed to the seat in front of you. You’re not listening to music. You’re rewatching last night’s UConn game. You know every stat already, but you still want to see it again. The offensive set with the double screen. The baseline jumper off a late inbound. The missed free throw that almost cost the win. You’re already thinking of how to write about it.

You’ve joined the school paper. It's a small operation—two seniors, one overworked English teacher, and a Google Drive that hasn’t been organized since 2009—but you see it as your way in. You're not interested in the lunchroom drama or the debate team blurbs. You pitch a weekly column, “The Husky Report.” Your teacher hesitates—says it's niche and not everyone follows college sports. But you’re already drafting the first one in your notebook before he finishes saying no.

You publish under your initials. You’re not sure why. Maybe because it makes you feel older. Or more professional. Or because it hides the fact that you’re a freshman with braces and a UConn keychain dangling from your backpack like a badge of honor. Still, people start reading it. At first, it’s just your teachers. Then your history class group chat starts circulating your write-ups. One day, a senior stops you in the hallway and says, “Yo, you really watch all the games?” You nod. He fist-bumps you. Keeps walking. That’s it. But it stays with you all day.

At home, your room’s changed a little. Your parents painted it two summers ago—a cool slate blue—and you’ve taken down most of the cartoon posters. But the basketball wall remains. Jerseys hung carefully. Ticket stubs pinned like battle ribbons. Your cork board's filling with clippings now. The front page when UConn won its eleventh title, your own printed columns from the school site, even a grainy photo of you standing courtside at a youth event Geno spoke at. He signed your notepad. It’s in a plastic sleeve like it’s holy.

Your parents still go with you to some games, but they don’t need to anymore. You've memorized the bus schedule, the student discounts, which gates have shorter lines, which hot dog vendors won't overcharge. You keep a little journal in your pocket at all times. Game notes. Quotes. Impressions. Nothing gets past you. Not a missed defensive rotation. Not a ref’s bad angle. You tweet updates too, tagging players and throwing in gifs. Occasionally a like. Once, a retweet from the UConn WBB official account. You ran downstairs to show your mom like it was an Olympic medal.

By sophomore year, your name starts circulating a little.

The UConn student-run paper reposts one of your longer recaps with a short line, “Better coverage than most pros.” You print it. Frame it. Your journalism teacher calls you the “resident UConn oracle.” Your parents joke about building you a press booth in the garage.

Still, there’s something that lingers in your chest. A kind of ache you can’t name yet. It hits when you’re watching warmups from the second row, alone in a sea of fans. When you see the team huddled together, laughing, bumping shoulders, drenched in sweat and confidence. When the lights dim and the intro video plays and your pulse jumps like it’s your name on the Jumbotron. But it never is.

You’re always watching. Always writing. But you’re not in it.

There’s a moment, sometime that winter, when you start wondering what it would feel like to be known by them. Not in a creepy way. Not in an I want to be part of the team type of way. But… something else. To be seen. To be a fixture, not a fan. To have one of them look up after a win and spot you. Smile. Wave.

You tuck that thought away. You don’t write it down. You barely admit it to yourself.

In sophomore year, you get serious.

You start studying tape more deliberately. Not just for recaps, but for yourself. You keep spreadsheets now. Advanced stats. Scouting notes. You teach yourself analytics from online videos and a couple of free courses online. Your teacher offers to help you apply to a summer sports journalism camp in Boston. You get in. You're the youngest person there. Also the only one who never played any sport. But your mock articles get handed around. You make a couple of connections. A woman who used to work at ESPN gives you her card. Says you have an eye for the game. That your writing “moves.”

That night in your dorm room, you pull out your notebook. You scribble one sentence on the cover, They’ll know who I am one day, and underline it.

Not in a cocky way. Not even in a hopeful way. Just a truth you believe with your whole chest.

Junior year begins differently.

It starts not with the usual chill of October or the ritual of printing out the UConn schedule and taping it beside your desk, but with an email.

Subject: The Husky Report Sender: Leah Moore, Assistant Director of Strategic Communications, UConn Athletics.

You read it four times before moving.

At first you think it’s a prank. A scam. Something fake or automated, even though the signature is too specific and the greeting says your full name. You check it on your phone. You check it again on your laptop. You Google her name just to be sure. She’s real. And she works for UConn.

Hi Y/N,

I’ve been following your weekly columns and Twitter threads this season. Your eye for detail and storytelling stands out—especially for someone still in high school. I showed your piece on the Baylor game to our department lead and she said, “Who is this kid?”

Would you ever be interested in shadowing a game day with our media team this season? No pressure. Just thought it might be something you’d enjoy. Let me know.

— Leah Moore.

You sit frozen, the cursor blinking in reply. For two whole minutes, you don’t move. You don’t even breathe right. Your fingers hover over the keys, and something builds inside you—not panic or excitement, but something steadier. Quieter. Like gravity.

The game day you choose is against Notre Dame. It's a non-conference classic, always personal, always dramatic. You’ve written about it the last three years, circling the same themes of legacy and rivalry and bloodlines. You’ve never missed it. But you’ve never seen it from this side.

Leah meets you in front of the loading dock behind Gampel. You’re wearing your cleanest jeans, a tucked-in UConn polo you had to borrow from your dad, and a pair of sneakers you scrubbed the night before. She gives you a lanyard and a smile and walks you through it like you’re a new hire, not a high school junior who still needs a parent signature to leave campus some days.

It feels surreal, like walking into the dream you’ve been watching from the outside for sixteen years.

Inside the media room, people are pacing. Laptops out. Screens open. Everyone’s in motion but not rushed, like they’ve done this dance so often they don’t have to think anymore. Leah walks you around the control desk, the social media monitor, the tunnel access screen. You’re not allowed to post anything live, but she says you can shadow their content guy for pregame media.

When the team walks in, you stand near the corner. Quiet. Out of the way.

And you see them.

Not on a screen. Not through binoculars. But here. Real. So close you could count their braids, see the scuffs on their shoes, hear the rhythm of their jokes. You recognize every face. You mouth their names to yourself like a litany. You remember their high school stats, their redshirt seasons, the injuries they fought through. They’re bigger than life—but now, somehow, smaller too. Real. Human.

You think of the little version of you—knees dangling in the student section, Sharpie tucked behind your ear. What would she say if she saw you here now?

The moment doesn’t feel loud. It feels earned.

You write a recap of the experience for your school blog. It’s not a game recap, not really. It’s about proximity. About what it means to watch the same story unfold a hundred times and finally step onto the same page. You include a paragraph about the pregame prep, the pressure behind the scenes, the weight of doing something perfectly even when no one sees it.

It gets picked up by a couple of local outlets. Nothing huge. But Leah emails again, saying your insight is rare. Says they’d like to keep you in the loop. Maybe consider you for a longer mentorship next fall. She calls you a “natural storyteller.”

You forward it to your parents. You print it, too. Tack it up next to the framed tweet repost. You stare at it when you can’t sleep.

It’s around this time that her name keeps popping up more and more.

Azzi Fudd.

You’d heard it before—clips, rumors, the occasional ranking blurb—but now it’s everywhere. Articles. Interviews. Everyone’s calling her the next big thing. She hasn’t even picked a school yet. But her game footage hits the internet like fire.

The first time you really watch her play, you’re on your bedroom floor, knees curled under you, a bowl of cereal forgotten at your side. It’s just a grainy highlight reel from an AAU game, filmed by some dad in the stands, but it doesn’t matter. What she does on the court—off the dribble, off the screen, without hesitation—it’s different. Smooth, yes. But also sharp. Sharp like scripture. Like a myth. Like someone wrote a story about a perfect shooter and Azzi decided to make it true.

You watch the video three times in a row. First muted. Then with sound.

You don’t know her. You don’t even know if she’s seriously considering UConn.

But something in your chest reacts.

Not just because she’s good. Plenty of players are good. It’s more than that.

It’s the way she carries herself. The calm. The discipline. The sheer gravity of her presence. The way her release looks like poetry and prayer at once.

You scroll through her Instagram that night. She's all over the place—smiling in one post, serious in another. Media day shots. Workout clips. Candid snaps with teammates. You pause on one of them. She’s laughing, eyes closed, head thrown back, hand mid-air like she just swatted someone who said something dumb.

You double tap. Move on. But your stomach feels different.

You don’t know what it is. Not yet.

But you will.

You decided to start making videos and not just writing for your school paper and tweeting the occasional tweet. You wanted to what you do to reach more people, to understand your love for the game, for the team, and hopefully help them love it too.

You started with a voiceover.

No face reveal. No professional production. Just you and your phone camera pointed at your laptop while you replay a sequence from Uconn’s last game. The part with one of those suffocating sequence where no one seems to hit anything clean for minutes until someone finally gets hot. You rewind a clip of Napheesa Collier making a spinning fadeaway jump shot with a defender all over her and how she was able to make space, narrating it.

The video is thirty seconds. Maybe thirty-five. You post it to Twitter. 

i promise you, no one in women’s college basketball is dissecting games like this. let me show you something.

It gets four likes that night. Two retweets. One of them is your cousin. The other is someone you’ve never heard of.

By the end of the week, it has 15,000 views.

It becomes a series before you can talk yourself out of it.

You give it a name. Husky Vision.

White text over a navy background, slapped together in Canva during lunch. You don’t appear on screen. Just your voice, your angles, your highlights. Your knowledge. It’s not flashy, but it’s smart. And fans—especially women’s basketball fans—start to notice.

The first time a former UConn player DMs you, you nearly drop your phone in AP Bio.

“Hey—just wanted to say you really get it. You’ve got a great eye.”

You don’t tell anyone, not even your parents. You just stare at the message, heart thudding, and reread it until you finally let yourself smile.

From there, everything picks up. Slowly, then all at once.

Leah from UConn reposts your breakdown of their win over South Carolina. She doesn’t even tag you—just reposts your video directly with a flame emoji. That same night, one of the assistant coaches likes two of your old tweets.

Your account starts gaining followers—students, women’s basketball super fans, some analysts. You notice a few names you recognize. Even one from The Athletic. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. It means something big.

You start doing mid-game threads, too. Live thoughts. Adjustments. What you’d change if you were calling the plays. People begin replying. Debating. Asking questions.

“How do you know so much?” “You’re sixteen???”

You don’t answer those. Not directly.

Instead, you just keep uploading. One post-game breakdown after another. Some long. Some short. Always sharp. Always specific.

Azzi starts showing up more.

Not in your notifications—she’s still a ghost to you—but in the games you’re watching. The national chatter is undeniable now. She’s a senior. Final year of high school. Her team is undefeated. One of the top recruits in the country. Her clips are showing up on all over social media.

You resist, at first. You tell yourself you don’t want to be one of those people—jumping on a name just because it’s trending. But her game… her game is undeniable.

You post your first video about Azzi on a quiet Sunday.

What makes Azzi Fudd different? Not the range. Not the handle. It’s the silence. Watch the way she moves without the ball. No panic. Just purpose.

You upload a 40-second clip. No music. Just your voice.

You wake up the next morning with 78,000 views. By lunch, it’s over 100K.

You don’t even realize she followed you until someone comments.

“omg Azzi just followed you??? do you KNOW what that means?????”

Your heart skips a beat. You check twice. Three times.

She did. No comment. No like. Just the quiet little blue check next to her name now following you back.

You sit in the bathroom stall during 5th period and stare at the screen until your phone dies.

That night, you open her profile again. You scroll slowly. Watch her media day clips. See the selfies with her teammates, the training clips in empty gyms, the one video of her laughing on the bench while her coach throws his clipboard.

You think of reaching out. Just something simple like a ‘thank you.’ You type it. You delete it. You’re not ready yet. But the slow burn has begun. Even if she doesn’t know it.

Yet.

You’re seventeen, standing under the buzzing lights of a high school gym in Springfield, Massachusetts, wearing a press badge with your name misspelled and your heart beating too loud to think straight.

It’s the Gatorade National Girls' High School Showcase, and you're here on a student press pass from Hartford Youth Sports Watch, a local online newsletter that publishes one of your columns every week. You pitched the idea yourself. Wrote the sample copy. Sent a portfolio. Asked—begged, really—to tag along with a couple of regional reporters who didn’t know who you were two months ago but now call you “the kid with the breakdowns.”

You were assigned Court 3. Middle of the bracket. A game between two strong teams from New York and Ohio. Good basketball. Plenty to write about.

But your eyes drift.

You know who’s playing on Court 1.

Team St. John’s College High. D.C. powerhouse. Headlined by none other than Azzi Fudd.

You spotted her twenty minutes ago as you stepped into the gym. Warmups. Black shooting shirt. Hair pulled back tight. Calm. Controlled. Eyes like ice water. You watched her knock down five threes in a row like she wasn’t even trying. Like her release didn’t need breath to function.

Your hands got clammy. You’d practiced what you’d say—if you saw her. If you got the chance. Something short. Respectful. Cool, but not weird.

Hi, I’m Y/N. I’ve done a few breakdowns on your games. I’d love to ask you a couple quick questions if you have a minute.

You rehearsed it. Memorized the inflection. Smoothed your hoodie three times before walking in.

And now, you're frozen.

You’re sitting on the folding chair behind the scorer’s table on Court 3, but your body is angled toward Court 1. Your eyes flick constantly between the action in front of you and the action across the gym, like you’re pretending to multitask but everyone can tell you’re distracted.

Azzi is on fire.

Her team isn’t blowing out the opponent, but she’s clearly the anchor. Commanding the floor. Talking just loud enough to lead, but quiet enough to make it seem easy. There’s a pace to her. You know it well now. The way she slows her defender down just by being near. The subtle shift of her weight before a screen. The way her shot stays level even when she's falling sideways.

You should be filming Court 3. You know it. You have a job.

Instead, you hold your phone low and record ten seconds of Azzi snatching a rebound, pushing coast to coast, and finishing with a mid-air hesitation so smooth it doesn’t look real. You whisper to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”

You don’t post it. You just save it to your camera roll.

At halftime, your game ends. There’s a twenty-minute break before the next match, and you're supposed to send a quick summary to the editor of the newsletter.

You don’t.

You get up, walk slow, and circle the far side of the gym—close enough to get to Court 1, but not too close. You still haven’t figured out what you’re doing. You’ve got a reporter’s notebook in one hand and your phone in the other. Your feet are moving on instinct.

She’s standing near the water cooler with a towel around her neck, talking with one of her teammates. Laughing. Not fake laughing. Real laughing—the kind that makes her head tilt back a little and her dimples show. You freeze again. You’re five feet away. You could say it. You should say it.

But your throat closes. You pretend to check your notes. Pretend to tie your shoe. Pretend to be invisible. And that’s when it happens. She looks up. Right at you. Not a glance. Not an accident.

She sees you.

And for a second—a full, tangible second—Azzi Fudd stares. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. She just tilts her head a little like she’s trying to place you. Like you might be familiar.

You’re still. Then her eyes flick to your notebook. You panic.

You whip your gaze to the floor, scribble a line you’ll never use, and step back toward the bleachers before she can say anything. Your heart hammers. You don’t breathe until you’re back at Court 3, sitting down hard, hands shaking a little from whatever just passed between you.

You don’t know what that moment meant.

Maybe she recognized you from your videos. Maybe she didn’t.

Maybe she just caught a weird kid staring and made a mental note to never do interviews with high schoolers again.

You don’t know. But you can’t stop thinking about it.

Not when you leave the gym. Not when you email your write-up. Not when you lie awake that night and replay the look in her eyes over and over like you’re trying to find something in the freeze frame.

You write your article on the showcase the next day. It’s about the team from Ohio. About rebounding margins and high-percentage shots and defensive tempo.

But at the end, in the final paragraph, you add a single line.

“And of course, all eyes kept drifting to Court 1. Azzi Fudd doesn’t just play the game. She redefines how it feels to watch it.”

You don’t tag her.

You don’t even say her name again.

But the view count climbs higher than your usual posts. You get a few more followers. One of her teammates likes the article.

That night, you check your followers list again. She’s still there. Still following you.

You decided to do something different for your application for Uconn. You don’t know if someone before you have done it, but you do it anyway. 

It takes you three weeks to write the first sentence. You scrap it five times.

Every version sounds too polished or too desperate or too… not you. But it matters. It’s everything. Your application to UConn—the school you’ve loved since you were a baby in a blue onesie—has to be perfect.

You have good grades. A clean transcript. Some solid recs. But the personal essay? That’s where you have to bleed a little.

So finally, on a night when the house is quiet and the rain hits soft against your window, you open a blank document and type.

“My earliest memory isn’t of a toy or a birthday or a bedtime story. It’s of sitting on my father’s shoulders in the XL Center, watching Maya Moore hit a three from the corner and not understanding what basketball was—but knowing it meant everything.”

That’s the line that stays.

The rest flows like breath. You write about your first game. The way your mom clapped louder than the student section. The sound of the buzzer. The way Geno’s voice became part of your family’s dinner conversations. How you’ve never played basketball, not once, but the game has shaped you like a second spine. How you don’t want to be on the court. You want to be near it. Recording it. Honoring it. Living beside it.

You cry when you finish. Just a little.

But the writing isn’t what you’re most proud of.

It’s the video.

You’ve been working on it since August. It’s part of your application—an optional supplement. You call it, My UConn Dream.

A ten minute mini-documentary. 

It opens with old footage—your dad’s grainy camcorder shots of toddler-you in a UConn beanie, holding a popcorn bucket bigger than your face. A cut to the upper bowl. A crowd rising to its feet. Taurasi on the jumbotron. You barely blinking.

Then it transitions to your voice.

“This isn’t just about a school. It’s about a lifetime of falling in love with the same thing over and over again.”

You layer in your own vlogs. Clips from games. Interviews you’ve done. Geno calling you Stat Girl with that smirk. Diana throwing you a peace sign after a win. Behind the scenes shots from the media room, from buses, from cold walks through campus before dawn.

You narrate throughout. Honest. Real.

“I want to major in digital media and sports journalism. I want to tell stories. I want to keep honoring women who never get the camera pointed at them first.”

There’s a moment near the end where your voice breaks. Just a little.

“I want to go to the place that raised me.”

You post it publicly on your channel the same night you submit your application.

Your thumbnail, a still of you as a kid in the stands, face painted, holding a sign that says “In Geno We Trust.”

It goes up at midnight.

By morning, it has 40,000 views. Hundreds of comments flood in.

You’re overwhelmed. In the best way.

You don't know, as you scroll through those comments in your kitchen that morning, still in your pajamas and still too stunned to eat breakfast, that your video has already traveled farther than you thought.

You don’t know that a girl two states away watched it alone in her bedroom the night it dropped.

That her best friend sent her the link.

Paige: yo, this the girl coach always talking about

You don’t know that Azzi Fudd clicked it out of curiosity, not expecting much. Just another fan, probably. Some girl with a phone and a ring light and a big voice.

But she watched the whole thing.

Every second.

Watched you in the stands. Watched your hands shake holding a mic. Watched the way your voice softened when you talked about what basketball means to you.

She watched you say, “Some people are born into teams. But I chose this one. Or maybe it chose me.”

And she paused the video. Sat back. Felt something shift. Just a little. She recognized your voice from that one video you made about her. Now she won’t forget it. She doesn’t comment. Doesn’t like. Doesn’t share.

But she sends it to her mom. And later, she watches it again.

She doesn’t know why. She just does.

You, meanwhile, are pacing.

You triple-check your application portal every night before bed. Refresh it. Stare at the little “Submitted” checkmark like it might morph into “Accepted” if you squint hard enough.

You go to every home game you can. Still wearing your lanyard. Still getting quotes. Still uploading breakdowns.

People greet you by name now in the concourse. You start your next video with a laugh.

“So, I did a thing. I applied to UConn. And if you’ve been here long enough, you already know this was coming.”

You hold up a keychain you bought from the campus bookstore.

It just says Soon.

Weeks later, you’re in your bedroom writing another piece when you see the email.

It’s almost anticlimactic—just a vibration on your phone during fifth period that you don’t check until after school. You’re walking up the driveway, backpack digging into one shoulder, when your thumb swipes down and your eyes catch the header.

University of Connecticut – Admissions Decision Available

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t run inside. You try to walk normal. You make it halfway to the kitchen before dropping your bag and unlocking your phone with fingers that suddenly feel too big. Your mom’s in the other room. Your dad’s still at work. You open the email alone, standing in your socks on the hardwood floor.

You click the portal. Your breath skips.

Congratulations!

You don’t read the rest, just yell.

“MOM!”

She’s already running in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “What? What happened—”

“I GOT IN!”

“OH MY GOD—” She drops the towel. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

You spin your phone around and she grabs your face and starts crying before you even do.

It’s not a fancy scholarship announcement. There’s no marching band or TV camera crew. Just a shaking screen, your mom squeezing you, your chest cracked wide open because you did it. You got in.

To UConn.

The place you’ve been dreaming of since before you knew how dreams worked.

That night, you make the video.

You’ve never done something like this. Not with you in it.

Your voice has always been there—behind the camera, under the highlights, in captions and threads and box score breakdowns—but never you. Not your face. Not your story.

You set your phone up against a stack of books, right next to the cork board full of game tickets and your “Bleed Blue” sign. You wear your old UConn hoodie—sleeves too short, frayed at the wrist. Your hair’s a mess. You don’t care.

You hit record.

“Okay,” you say, laughing nervously. “Hi. Um. I don’t know how to do this. This isn’t a breakdown or anything. This is just… me.”

You glance off camera. Take a breath.

“I got in. I got into UConn. I got my acceptance email this afternoon, and I still don’t fully believe it. I’ve wanted to go to UConn since I was—what—six months old? No, like actually. My parents took me to my first UConn women’s basketball game when I was a baby. I don’t remember it, but they say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner and I cried through the whole first half.”

You smile.

“This school, this program, it raised me. I wasn’t a basketball player. I didn’t put on a jersey or go to summer camp or play AAU. I was the kid in the stands with a notebook and a pen. I was the one yelling stats at my parents on the drive home. I took the bus to games when they couldn’t take me. I wrote about the team in my school paper.”

Your voice starts to shake, just a little.

“I made videos. I made so many videos. And I didn’t think anyone was watching, at first. But some people did. And now I’m going to the place that made me fall in love with basketball without ever playing a second of it.”

You sniff. Wipe your cheek quickly.

“I guess what I’m saying is… if you’re someone who loves something so hard it feels dumb or small or embarrassing—don’t stop. Don’t shrink it down to make other people comfortable. Just keep loving it. Loudly. Obsessively. Because I did. And it brought me here.”

You pause. Bite your lip. Then grin.

“Also—minor detail, but—if I do happen to marry a UConn women’s basketball player… nobody be surprised.” You wink at the camera, shrugging. “Just saying.”

You end the video there.

You post it around 10:30 p.m. You think maybe your friends will see it. Maybe some people from Twitter. You almost don’t tag the UConn WBB account.

But you do.

When you wake up… everything is different.

Your phone is buzzing. Not just a few notifications. Hundreds.

The video has already passed 90,000 views. It’s been reposted by a local news station, quote-tweeted by a beat reporter, and—most terrifyingly—shared by the official UConn WBB account with the caption, This is what Husky Nation is all about! Welcome home, Y/N.

You sit straight up in bed. You scroll down.

One comment catches your eye. You recognize the name immediately.

azzi35: congratulations! 

Your jaw drops. You reread it five times. You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

She saw it.

She saw it.

Your mom comes in a few minutes later, holding a mug of coffee and grinning.

“You’re famous,” she teases, handing it to you. “I just watched it again.”

You stare down at your screen. “Azzi Fudd commented on it.”

She pauses. Blinks.

“Like the Azzi Fudd?”

“Yeah.”

Your mom sits on the edge of your bed. “Oh honey,” she laughs softly, nudging your shoulder. “You really might marry a UConn player someday.”

You hide your face in your hands.

And smile.

It’s Thursday. Four days after the video. Three days since UConn reposted it. Two since a local TV station invited you for an interview, to which you politely declined, and exactly zero days since you last reread the part where Azzi Fudd commented on your post.

You’ve read it so many times it’s engraved in your brain.

congratulations!

You didn’t know how one word could impact you like this.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. What were you supposed to say—“thanks, I’ve watched every minute you’ve played since sophomore year and also your jumper is technically a religious experience”?

No.

You let it sit. You breathed. You told yourself it was enough.

And it was.

Until your phone buzzes at 6:47 p.m. while you’re heating up leftovers in the microwave and you glance down to see the words,

azzi35 sent you a message

You stare at it like it’s not real. Like it’s going to vanish if you blink too fast.

You dry your hands on your hoodie and sit at the counter. The microwave beeps. You don’t hear it.

You tap the screen.

That video made my mom cry. Just wanted to say congrats again. Maybe I’ll see you on campus soon? 

You read it once. Twice. A third time, aloud, under your breath.

“Her mom cried?” you whisper. “Her mom.”

You cover your face with one hand and try not to spiral. The message is so simple. So normal. But it’s from Azzi. And it’s kind. And direct. And real. And she remembered. She saw the video days ago and still thought about it long enough to follow up.

You try typing.

Thank you so much, that seriously means the wor—

Delete.

Can’t believe you saw it. Congrats on making my soul leave my—

Delete.

Not me sobbing into my hoodie like an absolute idiot becau—

Delete.

You exhale, hard.

that’s so sweet!! tell her thank you for me?? and thank YOU for even watching it. hope our paths actually cross sometime 

You stare at it.

Or like… casually all the time since we’ll be at the same school?? nbd or anything??

No. Too much. Too desperate.

You delete the second half. Hit send before you can change your mind.

You don’t expect her to reply right away. You actually don’t expect her to reply at all. But two minutes later, ’typing…’, appears.

Your stomach flips like you’re on a rollercoaster that only goes up.

If I see you on campus I’m definitely saying hi. You’re pretty famous now anyway 

You laugh out loud. Alone. In your kitchen. With your mom’s spaghetti steaming behind you, untouched.

don’t do that. i will collapse in public. like full dramatic slow fall to the pavement.

More typing.

I’ll catch you. I got fast reflexes.

You slap your hand over your mouth and make an inhuman sound.

You pace the kitchen. You stare at the message. You take a screenshot, text it to your best friend with seventeen exclamation marks, delete the screenshot, then open your fridge for absolutely no reason other than to put your face inside it and whisper, “Get it together.”

Your phone buzzes again.

also ur videos? literally the best ones out there. i’m not kidding.

You stop breathing. You sit down slowly. Your hands tremble just a little.

ok so if i die tonight it’s fine because azzi fudd said my videos are the best ones out there. tell my mom i love her. bury me in husky blue.

Her reply comes quick.

stop. i’m being serious.

i watch all of them. they’re like… calming, idk? i’ll be nervous pregame and someone shows me one, especially the one you made of me, and it’s just like… “oh. right. i know how to do this.”

You stare at that message for a long time. Not because it’s surreal. But because it’s intimate. She didn’t have to say that. She didn’t have to say any of this.

You take a breath. You reply honestly.

i can’t even tell you what that means to me. i’ve loved this game my whole life. i never played but it’s always been from the outside looking in. hearing that it helps you? that makes all of it worth it.

She doesn’t type right away. You sit with the silence. Eventually, her message comes through.

maybe not for long though. outside looking in, i mean. you’re gonna be there soon.

You blink. Smile.

And think—not for the first time, not for the last—maybe you're not just going to attend UConn. Maybe you're about to belong there.

The air in Storrs smells like August. Grass, asphalt, hot mulch, sweat, and a little bit of panic.

You’re three trips into moving your whole life from Hartford to your tiny dorm in North Campus. Your back hurts, your shirt is sticking to you, and your mom already cried twice—once when she saw the room, again when she handed you a Ziplock of chocolate chip cookies with a shaky smile.

You’re standing on the curb with your last box. It’s heavy. Your arms are burning. Your RA said the elevator was broken, because of course it is, and there’s no one else around because you told your parents to go grab iced coffee without you, thinking you could carry this one on your own.

You’re halfway to convincing yourself to make the climb when you hear it.

“Need a hand?”

You turn.

She’s standing in front of you. Azzi. In shorts and a loose gray UConn Athletics t-shirt, sunglasses perched on her head, braids pulled back tight. A folded map of campus in one hand, half a smoothie in the other.

You forget how to hold the box for a second. You blink.

“Wait—are you serious right now?” you say.

Her grin widens. “I’m pretty strong,” she says, flexing one arm dramatically, then snorts. “You looked like you were about to just sit down and let the box win.”

“I was,” you say. “It was winning. Completely dominating me. No contest.”

She laughs. Sets her smoothie on the ground. “Here,” she says, and takes the box from your arms like it weighs nothing. “Which floor?”

“Third.”

“No elevator?” she asks, walking beside you now.

“Of course not,” you mutter. “Welcome to college.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. She’s calm. Like this is normal. Like helping someone move into a random dorm is something she just does. Her pace is easy. Her shoulders loose.

You reach the stairwell. She goes first. You trail behind, still slightly disoriented.

“I didn’t know you were in this dorm,” you manage.

“I’m not,” she says. “I just got here early for practice. I was grabbing something from the student center and saw you on the sidewalk. Thought you looked familiar. Thought—‘hey, that’s the breakdown girl who made my mom cry.’”

You groan. “You just had to bring that up.”

“It was cute,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. She’s still talking about it.”

“I’m gonna change my name and live in a hole.”

She laughs again, and you swear it echoes.

By the time you reach the room, your heartbeat isn’t just from the stairs.

She sets the box down and wipes her hands on her shorts. “There we go.”

You try to think of something cool to say. Something not weird. Something that doesn’t scream… I’ve had a crush on you from the moment I saw you step behind a screen and bury a three like it was nothing.

What comes out instead is, “So like… how does it feel?”

She tilts her head. “How does what feel?”

“Being Azzi Fudd,” you say, then wince. “Sorry. That sounded—”

“No, I like that question,” she says, still smiling. She leans against your desk, arms folded now. “It feels… crazy. Like, people say the name like it’s a brand. Or a stat sheet. But I still wake up with my bonnet half-falling off and toothpaste on my shirt, you know?”

You laugh. You can’t help it.

She shrugs. “It’s humbling being here, honestly. UConn’s where all my heroes came from. And now I’m just hoping I don’t trip over my own feet in front of Geno.”

“You won’t,” you say, automatically. “You belong here.”

Azzi pauses and looks at you for a beat.

“Thanks,” she says softly. “You really think that?”

“I mean… yeah. I’ve been watching this program my whole life. I can tell who’s got it. And you? You’ve got it.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Not just amusement now. Something warmer.

She nudges your desk chair with her foot. “And what about you? You’re finally here. After all the years in the stands.”

You exhale. “I still don’t believe it. I keep waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.” You look at her. “It wasn’t,” she repeats, and her voice is firm now. “You worked for this.”

You sit down on your bed because your legs are suddenly a little wobbly. “I didn’t even play basketball. I always loved it from the outside. Like I was watching through a glass wall. But now I’m here. With an official pass. And a class schedule. And a mini fridge.”

“And a camera that makes players nervous,” she adds, grinning. “Seriously—do you know how many people talk about your videos? Paige loves them.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Paige Bueckers?”

She nods. “She’s my best friend. We played USA ball together. Trained together a ton. I’m hyped to be on her team again.”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. No. Yeah. She’s insane. Her court vision? Unreal.”

Azzi perks up. “Right? You get it. Most people just talk about her scoring.”

You grin. “No, her reads are the most dangerous part. It’s like she sees into the future.”

Azzi points at you. “Exactly!”

You both pause. Smiling. The room quiets.

“So,” she says, nudging her shoe against yours. “Now that we’re both here… what happens next?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You think of ten possible answers. You settle on one.

“I guess we both do what we came here to do,” you say. “You win games. I tell stories.”

She holds your gaze for a second.

“I like that,” she says. “Sounds like a pretty good team.”

Your cheeks burn.

You smile. “Yeah. I think so too.”

You weren’t planning on staying late.

You just needed to print a last-minute syllabus, maybe jot down a few class notes before the chaos of syllabus week turned into real deadlines. The main library was packed, the dorm lobby was loud, so you wandered until you found the tiny study lounge tucked between the chemistry building and the dining hall.

It’s quiet. Almost sacred.

Dim yellow light. One humming vending machine. Two long tables. One outlet that works. You set your laptop down at the far end, earbuds in, hoodie up, world shut out.

Until you hear the soft scrape of sneakers against tile.

You look up.

Azzi stands in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, curls tied up, water bottle in one hand, textbook in the other.

She sees you and smiles like it’s not even surprising.

“Oh hey,” she says. “I knew I’d run into you eventually.”

You blink. “In the library?”

She laughs. “Exactly where I thought you’d be.”

You gesture to the empty seat across from you. “Welcome to the land of procrastination.”

She drops her bag with a soft thud. “My favorite.”

At first, it’s quiet. You’re working on class notes. She’s flipping through a textbook—sports psych, you think. Every so often you hear the soft tick-tick of her highlighter, or the slosh of her water bottle when she takes a sip.

It’s… easy.

Too easy, maybe.

Until she looks up and says softly, “Do you ever think about how weird this is?”

You glance up. “What part?”

“This,” she says, waving vaguely at the room. “Like… you and me. Sitting here. Same school. Same campus. I used to watch UConn highlights on my phone between homework and shooting workouts, and now I’m just… here.”

You nod slowly. “I do think about that a lot.”

She rests her chin on her hand. “I think sometimes people expect me to feel like the version of myself they know from the internet or YouTube or whatever. Like I’m supposed to always be locked in. Always the brand.”

You don’t say anything. You let her keep going.

“But here,” she says, voice lower now, “it’s kinda nice just being Azzi. Not the basketball player. Just me.”

You swallow. And carefully, gently, you say, “What’s just you like?”

She looks at you. Really looks. Like she’s surprised you asked.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m still figuring that out.”

You nod. She shifts a little, lets her leg bump yours under the table. Doesn’t move it.

“I’m quiet,” she says. “At first. I like routines. I don’t like attention off the court, even though I always seem to get it. I like Twizzlers more than I should probably admit. And I can watch the same movie three times in one week if I’m stressed.”

“What movie?”

“Coach Carter,” she says, grinning. “Judge me.”

You shake your head. “I’d only judge you if you said Thunderstruck.”

Her whole face lights up. “Okay wait—objectively one of the worst basketball movies ever made.”

“Thank you!”

She bites her bottom lip, still smiling. “I was worried you were gonna say it’s your favorite.”

“I make videos, Azzi. I have taste.”

She laughs again, leans back in her chair. Her posture’s looser now. Like she’s shedding something.

You watch her for a second. The quiet under the lights. The way her gaze lingers on the ceiling tiles like she’s somewhere else for a moment—maybe in her own head, maybe somewhere she hasn’t told anyone about yet.

“Why UConn?” you ask.

She looks down. Twirls the cap of her highlighter.

“Because I wanted to play for Geno,” she says. “Because I wanted to wear the jersey I grew up watching. Because Paige is here. Because I wanted to be part of something bigger than just my name.”

You nod. “That makes sense.”

She glances at you. “What about you? Why here?”

You pause. Think. Not about the rehearsed answers you gave in essays or to your guidance counselor. You think about the answer you’ve never really said out loud.

“Because it’s always felt like home,” you say. “Even when I was just a face in the stands. It felt like where I was supposed to be.”

She tilts her head. “Even though you never played?”

You smile. “Especially because I never played. Watching was playing. In my head. In my notebooks. It’s how I learned to love the game.”

Azzi stares at you for a long second.

“I think that’s beautiful,” she says softly.

Your throat goes a little tight. You look back at your screen. “Don’t say stuff like that or I’ll start writing a poem about you and post it on Twitter.”

She laughs again. “Do it. I dare you.” You open a Word doc. Start typing. She leans across the table. “No you won’t.”

You keep typing. She squints at the screen.

Roses are red Huskies are blue Azzi Fudd walked in And I forgot how to function like a normal person who knows how to make eye contact—

She snorts. “You’re such a weirdo.”

You grin. “Takes one to know one.”

By the time you check the clock, it’s past 1 a.m. The building is silent. Just the hum of the vending machine and the click of your keys as you pack up. She stands at the same time you do. Your shoulders brush. Neither of you steps away.

She looks at you under the soft yellow light. “Wanna walk back together?”

You nod. You both walk out into the night. The air’s cooler now. Softer.

She nudges your arm gently. “Hey.” You glance over. “Thanks,” she says. “For tonight.”

“For carrying your half of the friendship so far?”

“For letting me be Azzi,” she says.

You smile. “Anytime.”

You mean it.

It’s your second week working student media and your first real UConn Women’s Basketball practice.

You’ve got the press vest, the clunky video camera, checked out of the digital lab, a spare battery in your back pocket, and a nervous buzz running all the way through your limbs like static. You’re supposed to be filming highlights for a pre-season hype reel, which means getting clean, tight shots of drills, scrimmages, Geno being Geno, and—if you’re lucky—some personality.

You try to stay out of the way. Hug the wall, step behind the scorer’s table, film from above when the angle works. You know this gym. You’ve grown up in this gym. But today, it feels like walking through a dream that keeps touching you back.

The team moves like music—chaotic, precise, loud. Shoes squeaking, balls slamming into hardwood, whistles sharp. Azzi is everywhere. She’s vocal. Focused. Cutting sharp and fast like her legs are on springs. You track her without even meaning to.

You’re filming from midcourt when it happens.

She glances over during a break, wipes sweat from her brow, and smirks.

“Yo, Y/N—you getting my good side or what?”

You fumble the focus.

“Uh,” you say, stupidly. “You… have more than one.”

She raises an eyebrow. Grins like she just scored.

“Nice save,” she says, turning back toward the drill line.

From down the court, Aaliyah lets out a loud “OHHHhhh she’s FLIRTIN’ again!”

Everyone laughs.

Dorka claps. “That’s like the third time this week.”

Azzi doesn’t flinch. “I’m just making sure the videographer stays focused.”

Paige leans over to you. “She only says that to people she likes.”

You choke on your spit.

Later, you're crouched on the baseline, capturing close-ups during a half-court scrimmage. Azzi drives hard to the right, fakes a pass, pulls back, and buries a three so smooth it could’ve been filmed at half-speed.

As she jogs backward, she turns slightly toward you, throws two fingers up at her temple, and mouths, “Get that?”

You nod, too stunned to speak.

Behind her, Paige—who’s just arrived and is watching from the sideline with a Gatorade—calls out, “If you make a mixtape just for her, I swear to God.”

Azzi calls back, “Don’t worry, it’s for her personal archives.”

Everyone oohs. You just bury your face in your hands, camera shaking.

After practice, you’re transferring footage onto your laptop in the media room when you hear sneakers on linoleum. You look up.

Azzi leans in the doorway, fresh out of the locker room. Hair damp. Hoodie slung over her shoulder.

“Hey,” she says, a little softer now.

“Hey.”

“You got the shot, right? That step-back?”

You nod. “In high definition. It’s practically a religious experience.”

She grins. “Good. I wanna send it to my mom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna send your mom a clip from my camera?”

She walks in, shrugs. “You shoot me better than the actual team page does.”

Your cheeks burn.

She eyes your screen. “Wanna sit in the stands sometime? Like… not for work. Just as friends. Watch the men’s practice with me?”

“Friends watch practices together?”

She shrugs again. “They do if they’re secretly scouting each other.”

You laugh, shake your head. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re blushing.”

You are. Fully.

You shut your laptop slowly. “Yeah, well. You are my favorite player.”

She pauses. Smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Good. Because you’re kinda becoming one of mine.” Your breath stutters. You say nothing. And she just smiles wider. “See you around, camera girl.”

She disappears back down the hall.

You sit frozen for a beat before whispering into the empty room, “Oh my God.”

It’s a Thursday afternoon when the gym lights flicker on overhead and the thump of basketballs begins to echo like a heartbeat. You’re back again, perched behind the camera at the scorer’s table, watching the team warm up. Same camera. Same assignment. Same angle.

But everything feels a little different now.

Because this time, Azzi keeps looking at you.

Not subtle glances. Not maybe she’s checking the clock kind of looks. No—this is head up, eyes locked, tiny grin tugging at the corners of her mouth every time she sinks a shot. She doesn’t break her stride. Doesn’t call attention to it. But it’s there. Like she’s playing with the gym but performing for you.

You try to stay focused. Try to pan smoothly. Try to track the drills without letting your hands shake. But every time she glances over, you feel it in your spine.

And when scrimmage starts, it only gets worse.

It’s a loose five-on-five, full-court with a few new sets they’re testing. Paige’s running point. Dorka’s working on her inside presence. Azzi starts slow—light on her feet, reading the floor, not forcing anything.

But midway through the second possession, Paige kicks it out to her beyond the arc.

One dribble. Step back.

Three.

Swish.

You instinctively follow the shot through your lens and catch her turning—eyes to you. She lifts her eyebrows once, like you get that?

You give a barely-there nod.

Next play, Azzi curls off a screen from Nika, gets the handoff, barely sets her feet.

Second three.

Net again.

This time, when she turns to jog back on defense, she says just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m telling you—Y/N’s my lucky charm.”

You freeze behind the camera.

Paige, mid-transition, snorts. “Oh my god.”

Aaliyah yells, “Here she goes!”

You catch Dorka dramatically wiping imaginary sweat from her brow.

On the next trip down, Paige feeds her again. No hesitation. No wasted movement.

Third three.

This one rattles in. Still counts.

The gym erupts in the usual “Woooo” from the sideline, sneakers squealing as players shuffle back into place.

But this time, it’s Geno who steps in from the wing with his whistle in his hand and that familiar, half-exhausted, half-amused look on his face—the one you’ve seen a thousand times on television but never this close. He points at Azzi, then points directly at you, sitting behind the camera.

“You two dating yet? Do I need to start charging her rent for attention?”

The gym explodes with laughter. It’s immediate, loud, relentless. Nika claps like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Paige almost falls to the floor. Aaliyah shouts, “Coach, please!!” and covers her face with a towel. Dorka gasps like she’s scandalized.

And you? You short-circuit. Fully. You duck your head behind the camera, ears burning, heart punching holes in your chest.

Azzi grins. “Don’t worry, Coach,” she says, still breathing a little heavy from the play, “if we were dating, I wouldn’t be missing any shots.”

Geno just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, “god help me.”

You don’t say a word. You keep filming. But your mouth won’t stop smiling.

After practice, you stay behind to upload footage. Azzi wanders over slowly, towel around her neck, sweat still glistening across her brow. She doesn’t sit. Just leans on the table beside your laptop and glances at the playback.

“That third one was ugly,” she murmurs. “But it went in.”

You click back and replay it. “Your arc was a little flat. You were leaning.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t notice.”

“I did.”

You play it again. She watches the ball drop clean through the net, the gym behind her erupting in sound, and smirks.

“And I noticed you,” she says.

You look up. She’s watching you now, not the screen.

“I meant it, by the way,” she adds. “You really are my lucky charm.”

You try to laugh it off. “I think your jump shot deserves most of the credit.”

“Maybe,” she says, standing straighter, slinging the towel around her shoulders. “But it’s more fun thinking it’s you.”

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to. She takes a step back, but her eyes linger.

“Text me the clips?” she says. “I wanna post the second one.”

You nod.

“Cool. And…” she bites her bottom lip, hesitates for a second. “You free tomorrow?”

Your breath catches.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I can be.”

“Great,” she says. “Let’s grab dinner. My treat.”

You blink. “Like… just us?”

She nods. “You know—lucky charm privileges.”

You laugh quietly. “I’ll bring the magic.”

She smiles. “I’m counting on it.”

And she walks away, leaving you in the quiet echo of the gym, sitting behind a camera that finally stopped rolling.

You’ve checked your shirt twice in the mirror and fixed your collar three times before you even leave your room. Not because you’re trying to impress her—well, okay, yes, because you’re trying to impress her—but not in the way people expect. It’s not flowers and cologne and rehearsed lines. It’s… subtler than that. Tucked shirts, pressed pants, a clean watch and your best calm voice.

You open doors. You walk on the outside of the sidewalk. You ask if she’s warm enough before you even think of your own coat.

You’re a little shy about it. You don’t broadcast who you are. You just show it.

And somehow—Azzi sees it all anyway.

She picked a little place off campus. Not too far, just past the edge of the college town strip, a small family-owned spot with warm lighting and quiet booths. She’s already waiting when you get there, tucked into the corner table with a water glass sweating beside her and her phone face down.

She sees you and smiles slow, soft, like she’s glad you’re real and standing in front of her.

“Hey,” she says, standing up before you can pull her chair out for her. “You clean up nice.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Was aiming for something between ‘student media’ and ‘my mom raised me right.’”

She laughs and gestures for you to sit. “Well, you nailed it.”

You take the seat across from her, hands resting loosely in your lap. The menu’s already waiting, but you don’t open it right away.

She watches you for a second before saying, “It’s weird seeing you without a camera.”

You smile. “It’s weird not having one.”

“Do you ever turn it off?” she asks.

You blink. “The camera?”

“No,” she says gently. “You. The part of you that’s always… watching.”

You sit with that.

“No one’s asked me that before,” you admit.

“Well,” she says, leaning in a little, “tonight I want you to not be working. Just be you.”

You glance down, then back at her. “And who’s that, exactly?”

Azzi tilts her head. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Dinner is easy.

Conversation flows like it’s been waiting to happen—never forced, never performative. You talk about your childhood in Hartford, about taking the bus to games alone when your parents were working, about the first time you saw Diana Taurasi play and how you didn’t blink the entire fourth quarter.

Azzi tells you about her first time meeting Geno. How nervous she was. How Paige teased her about her handshake being “too polite.” She mimics it—stiff, formal, laughably awkward—and you laugh harder than you expect.

She talks about Paige a lot, but not in the way that threatens you. It’s soft. Familiar. Like a big sister figure she admires and still wants to impress. There’s affection in every mention, but it’s different from the attention she’s been giving you.

And she gives you a lot of it.

Her eyes don’t wander. She leans closer when you speak. And when your fingers brush lightly while reaching for your water, she doesn’t pull away. Not even a little.

“You really love this school,” she says at one point, after you’ve told her about your acceptance video, your old journals, the posters that still hang on your childhood bedroom wall.

“I do,” you admit. “It raised me. Even when I didn’t know it.”

Azzi looks at you for a long time after that. Not just watching, but seeing.

“You’re different,” she says quietly.

You shift slightly in your seat, brows tugging together. “How do you mean?”

She’s still looking at you, expression unreadable. But not cold. Just open. Bare.

“You don’t look at me like the rest of them do.”

You pause. Swallow. “How do the rest of them look at you?”

“Like I’m a story they already wrote,” she murmurs. “Like I exist on highlight reels and shoe deals and media day quotes.” You don’t speak. She lifts her gaze. “But you… you watch me like you’re still figuring me out. Like you’re not trying to own any part of me. Just… witness me.”

You feel the words in your chest before they reach your brain.

“I think you deserve that,” you say. “To just be.”

Azzi’s lips part like she wants to say something back but decides against it. Instead, she just exhales and leans back in the booth, letting the silence sit between you—warm, unhurried.

After dinner, you offer to walk her back. Of course you do. It’s late, and the air has gone from cool to crisp. You take her empty smoothie cup and toss it into the trash can outside before she even has to ask. She thanks you without looking, like it’s natural now.

Halfway back to her dorm, she stops.

You turn with her.

She’s smiling. Just a little.

“Can I say something weird?” she asks.

You nod. “Always.”

“I wasn’t planning on liking you this much.”

You blink. “I wasn’t planning on being liked this much.”

Azzi laughs. It’s soft. She tucks a curl behind her ear. “That makes two of us.”

There’s a quiet moment where she’s just looking at you again. Not speaking. Not teasing. Just… soaking you in.

She steps forward, and you think for a second she might kiss you. She doesn’t. Just bumps her shoulder into yours and says, “Same time next week?”

You smile. “Same table?”

“Only if you wear the same shirt.”

You pretend to groan. “I have three shirts, Fudd. Don’t make me waste all my charm too fast.”

She laughs again and steps into the lobby of her building. You stay on the sidewalk a minute longer, watching the door slowly close. And you swear, just before it shuts, she turns and smiles at you one more time.

You and Azzi don’t make an announcement. There’s no sit-down conversation, no hard lines drawn or expectations set. It just… happens. You start showing up for each other in the smallest, quietest ways. Ways no one really notices until they suddenly do.

She texts you when she’s leaving the gym late and asks if you’re still up. You are. You always are. So you meet halfway between your dorms and split a bag of vending machine pretzels under flickering lights while the rest of campus sleeps.

You start bringing her iced coffee to morning classes on Wednesdays. She doesn’t ask for it, but she starts texting you her order anyway.

You study together on Tuesdays in the tiny music library with the bad Wi-Fi and the good sunlight. She wears glasses she never wears anywhere else. You never tell her how unfairly good she looks in them. But she catches you staring one day and says, “Stop that,” with a smile so soft it curls your ribs.

Your playlists start to blur. Your snacks. Your hours. She starts calling your hoodie hers without really asking, and you never take it back.

People don’t really ask questions at first. They just assume you’re close. Until it’s clear you’re not just teammates or classmates or campus acquaintances.

You’re something.

And that’s when Paige corners you.

You’re filming light drills during a morning practice. Most of the team is stretching, quiet murmurs floating around the gym. You’re crouched at midcourt, fixing your focus, when a shadow steps into your peripheral vision.

You glance up.

Paige Bueckers stands there with a smirk and a half-empty Gatorade bottle. Her hair’s a mess, and she’s already got a sweatband tied loose around one wrist.

She squints at you like she’s inspecting an exhibit.

“So,” she says slowly, “what are you two, exactly?”

You blink. “Huh?”

She points her Gatorade bottle in your direction. “You. Azzi. The subtle stares. The hallway walks. The hoodie swaps. The fact that she basically glares at anyone who gets within six feet of you.”

You lower the camera. “I don’t… I mean, we’re just…”

“Don’t say friends,” Paige cuts in. “I have friends. I don’t look at them like I want to memorize how they laugh.” Your mouth opens. Closes. She steps closer. “I’m her best friend. I’ve seen her with a million people. I’ve seen her pretend. But with you?” She shakes her head. “She’s not pretending.”

You swallow. “She hasn’t said anything.”

“Yeah, well,” Paige mutters, “she’s Azzi. She doesn’t always say things. She does them.”

You look down at your hands. They’re shaking a little.

“I don’t want to rush her,” you say softly. “I just… like being around her. I’m happy to wait. Or not wait. Or just—exist next to her.”

Paige watches you for a long beat. Then she softens.

“She trusts you,” she says. “That’s rare. Just don’t let her down, okay?”

You nod.

And she smirks. “Also, if you hurt her, I will dunk on you emotionally.”

You laugh. “I think I could survive that.”

“You couldn’t,” Paige says, and walks away.

Later that night, you and Azzi are sitting on a bench outside the student union. You’ve got fries between you and the cold air biting at your hands. She’s wearing your hoodie—oversized on her, sleeves swallowed up—and she’s scrolling through her phone while your knee bumps hers, back and forth, like a slow rhythm.

Out of nowhere, she says, “Paige talked to you, didn’t she?”

You glance over. “Yeah.”

“What’d she say?”

“That you glare at people who get too close to me.”

She rolls her eyes. “God, she’s so dramatic.”

“Is it true?”

Azzi doesn’t answer right away. “Only a little.”

You smirk. “Possessive much?”

She bumps her shoulder into you. “No. Just careful. I don’t like sharing what feels good.”

You glance down at your hands. She’s not holding yours. But she’s close enough. And when she exhales and leans into your side, you let her stay there.

And the feeling that this—whatever it is—is something you’re both building brick by brick.

It’s nearly 1:30 a.m. when you hear the knock.

Three soft taps. No urgency. But enough to pull you from your reading.

You glance toward the door, confused—because no one comes to your room at this hour. Not without texting first. Not without a reason.

When you crack the door open, Azzi’s standing there in sleep shorts and an oversized UConn t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair’s loosely braided, face bare, a faint crease in her cheek from where she must’ve been lying down earlier.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just shifts from foot to foot like she’s working up the courage to speak.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, eyes tired but steady. “And I… didn’t want to be alone.”

You open the door wider without hesitation. “Come in.”

She steps past you quietly, her hand brushing yours just for a second.

Your room is dim. Only the lamp on your desk is still on. The bed is small—UConn twin bed small—but you shift over instinctively, pushing your laptop and pillow aside, making space that doesn’t exist but somehow still feels enough for her.

She climbs in slowly, careful. Like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to let her guard down here.

But when she finally settles, she curls up beside you—tucks herself into the space between your body and the wall. Her knees brush yours. Her shoulder rests against your bicep. She lets out a breath you swear she’s been holding all day.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

She nods, but it’s small.

“I’ve just been… in my head,” she says. “It gets loud in there sometimes.”

You don’t ask for details. You don’t press.

Instead, you turn just enough so your body faces hers. “You want me to talk? Or just stay quiet?”

She shakes her head, eyes closed. “No talking.” Then, barely above a whisper, she adds, “You calm me down.”

You don’t answer. You just reach out and lightly place your hand on the curve of her waist—gentle, grounding. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. She exhales again. And this time it sounds like relief.

You don’t fall asleep right away, but you stay still. Let her breathe against you. Let your body mold around the shape of hers, careful and quiet and steady. You memorize the weight of her knee over yours, the rise and fall of her chest against your side, the slow soft shift of her hand under your arm as she finally, finally relaxes.

At some point, you do fall asleep. And when you wake up—she’s still there.

Fully tucked into you, head resting right over your heart, one arm draped across your ribs, the other curled tight between you like she’s trying to stay anchored. Your hoodie—which she must’ve pulled over in the middle of the night—covers half her face.

And she’s still asleep.

Peaceful.

Like the noise is gone now.

Your first instinct is not to move. Not even to breathe too loud. You look down at her, lashes resting against her cheeks, lips parted just slightly.

You shift only enough to tighten your arm around her. Pull her closer.

She hums softly at the motion—barely awake, maybe not at all—but leans in like her body already knows it belongs there.

And you lie there in the quiet morning light with her tucked into your chest, her breath warm on your skin, and all you can think is…

This… this is home.

The room is soaked in that soft gray-blue that only happens just before the sun fully breaks over campus. You’re still beneath the thin dorm blanket, your arm wrapped gently around Azzi, her body pressed close—like she molded herself into the curve of your chest overnight.

You haven’t moved in twenty minutes. Not because you’re asleep. But because this is the stillest you’ve ever felt.

And then she shifts. Just a little. A quiet inhale. A slight roll of her shoulders. Her head nestles deeper against your chest. You glance down. Her eyes are open now—barely. Still hazy. Still blinking off sleep.

She doesn’t look at you right away. Just… breathes. Lets her hand flex against your ribs, lets her fingers move slightly against the fabric of your shirt like she’s checking if you’re still real.

And then, in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard her use, she whispers, “I don’t want to leave yet.”

Your chest tightens.

You could answer a million ways. Could make a joke. Could nod. Could say nothing and just kiss the crown of her head. But you turn your head slightly and speak gently, as soft as she is.

“Do you want to stay?”

Azzi lifts her chin just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment she doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak—just looks at you like she’s never been allowed to look at anyone this long.

Then she nods. A small, certain nod.

You shift just slightly, enough to tuck your other arm under her, enough to cradle her properly. She sighs, one hand sliding up to rest lightly over your collarbone. Her forehead presses against your throat, and she lets her whole body relax into yours like gravity doesn’t exist outside this bed.

You hold her like she’s something delicate but sure. Something you’ve always known how to protect. Neither of you says anything else. There’s no need.

Outside, the campus starts to wake up—faraway doors opening, a soft burst of laughter down the hall, sneakers squeaking in the stairwell. But in this tiny corner of the dorm building, in your twin bed barely built for one, it’s just you and her.

And she’s still. Still in your arms. Still letting you hold her like this isn’t new.

You don’t think about the team. You don’t think about Paige, or Geno, or the next practice or the classes you’re missing. You don’t even think about what this is.

You just hold her. Because she asked to stay. And you want her to. So you stay like that for another hour. Until the sun finally reaches your window. And even then, neither of you moves. Not yet.

It didn’t happen with fireworks or a kiss under stadium lights.

It happened slowly and then all at once.

One night, she stayed over without asking. The next, she came back with her pillow. Then her toothbrush. Her hoodie. Her charger. One morning, she was brushing her teeth in your mirror, hair tied up, wearing your sweats and her socks and you looked up from your side of the bed and just—knew.

You were already hers.

And she’d already been yours.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t do you want to be together?

It was, we are. We just are.

Azzi touches you like you’re something safe. Holds your hand under tables. Rest her head on your shoulder during film nights. She lets you fix her braid when it comes undone in your room, even though you're not very good at it.

You bring her iced coffee before morning lifts and wrap your arm around her waist when she’s got a towel over her head after practice, sweat still clinging to her neck. She mutters, “gross,” but doesn’t pull away. Never pulls away.

She calls you “babe” now, but only when she’s sleepy. Or really happy. Or trying to get you to give her the last of the sour gummy worms.

One night after a win, Paige stops you in the tunnel, eyebrow raised.

“So it’s official now, huh?” You don’t answer. Just nod once, calm and easy. Paige grins. “Good. She deserves someone who sees her the way you do.”

Later that night, Azzi kisses you in your kitchen. Long. Sure. With her hands tucked under your shirt and her forehead resting against yours when she pulls back.

“You’re the first thing that feels… still,” she whispers.

You hold her tighter.

Now?

You’re on the couch in your apartment just off campus, her legs draped across yours, both of you pretending to study. The TV’s on mute. There’s a plate of shared fries on the coffee table, and her sock-covered foot keeps nudging your thigh every few minutes like she wants you to look at her.

You do. She smiles. You lean forward. Press a soft kiss to the inside of her knee, just because you can.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

“You’re wearing that smug face again,” she shoots back.

“I don’t have a smug face.”

“You do,” she says. “You get it when I call you mine.”

You smirk. “Say it again.”

She shifts, climbs into your lap, arms loose around your neck, forehead against yours.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs, quiet and warm.

And you smile the way you always do when you hear it. Because she’s yours, too. No question. No hesitation.

The game wasn’t perfect.

UConn had trailed in the first half. Turnovers were sloppy. The defense looked a step slow. But it was one of those classic second-half comebacks—the kind that made you fall in love with the program in the first place. Gritty. Relentless. Blue-blood basketball that didn’t panic when the rhythm broke, just reshaped itself until the song made sense again.

And Azzi? Azzi was the pulse that pulled it all back together. You don’t say her name in the video. Not out loud. But it’s all about her.

You set up your phone against a stack of books on your desk, flip your hoodie inside out to hide the logo, student media rules, and hit record just past 11 p.m., your voice calm but low, steady in that familiar tone that says, You’re watching something that mattered.

“Tonight’s game wasn’t about dominance,” you begin. “It was about control. The kind of control that looks quiet from the outside, but is doing all the heavy lifting behind the scenes.”

You play the first clip. A curl off a down screen. The ball never touches the floor—just one clean catch-and-release, a perfect arc, the net singing as it snaps.

“This is a shot you don’t attempt unless you trust yourself,” you say. “You don’t take it unless you’ve put in the hours when no one’s watching. You don’t make it unless your feet know what to do before your brain tells them.”

The next clip rolls. She’s off-ball now. Moving without drawing attention. Setting an off-screen that forces a mismatch. Two passes later, someone else scores.

“She won’t show up on the stat sheet for this one,” you say. “But she broke that play open with her movement. With her patience. That’s what makes the difference.”

You show a transition possession. A swing pass. A stop-and-pop jumper.

“She doesn’t shout with her game,” you continue. “She whispers. She hums. And by the end of the night, you realize she’s been the melody the whole time.”

You pause the tape. Just your face now. Calm. Still.

“This team doesn’t just need shot-makers. It needs tone-setters. Players who make the floor feel settled. Balanced. Trusted.”

You breathe out slowly.

“There’s one player on this roster who does that every time she’s out there.”

You don’t say her name. But everyone knows.

You post the video with a caption that just says, Game recap—the quiet ones always carry the weight.

You close the app. Put your phone down.

Fifteen minutes later, while you’re brushing your teeth, it buzzes on the counter.

azzi: just watched it. i don’t need you to say my name. i heard every word.

You stare at the screen.

good. because every word that i said? i meant it.

azzi: come over? i want to fall asleep hearing your voice, not just watching it.

And you don’t even hesitate.

It’s strange being the oldest now.

Not in life—just in this world. The UConn world. The practice jersey, locker room, Gampel at dawn world. You’re still in your early twenties, but somehow, senior year settles in your chest like the last page of a chapter you’re not quite ready to close.

You wear the same media badge, now faded at the edges, and carry the same camera you’ve had since freshman year. But your presence isn’t tentative anymore. Coaches nod when they pass you in the tunnel. Freshmen ask if they can “maybe be in the next clip.” The film room plays your edits before games. They say your name when they talk about the program now.

And Azzi?

Azzi is everything you knew she’d become.

She’s the co-captain. The shooter. The calming force. She’s the one they look to in timeouts, the one the little girls in the stands scream for, the one ESPN mics during pregame because her voice means something now.

She’s also still the one who texts you during film study from across the room, your girl just cooked that closeout. admit it.

You look up. She doesn’t even glance your way. Just smirks into her Gatorade.

You send back, you’re lucky i love you.

You’ve been together for three years now.

It’s not new anymore. But somehow, it never feels old.

You still get the same warm chill when she knocks on your door and slips inside without speaking. When she wears your shirt to bed. When she sits between your legs on the floor during game replays, her back against your chest, your fingers tracing light shapes over her ribs as the room glows blue with the paused footage.

Azzi still doesn’t talk a lot about her emotions. But she shows them. In how she watches you when she thinks you’re not looking. In how she adjusts your hoodie drawstrings without saying a word. In the way she always asks if you’ve eaten before she lets you start editing film. In the way she asks—quietly, but directly—if you’ll stay the night, even though she never has to.

You’ve been with her through everything. Through the rehab stint after her knee scare sophomore year. Through the championship loss in junior year that kept both of you up in silence. Through every early-morning workout, every late night edit, every moment where the pressure started to make her forget she was more than what she could score.

You never let her forget. And she never stops choosing you.

Now, it’s senior year.

And you’re both carrying the weight of lasts.

Last home opener. Last conference road trip. Last Midnight Madness.

There’s talk about what comes after—draft declarations, sports media job offers, maybe even that apartment in New York you bookmarked but never showed her. You don’t say it out loud yet. But you feel the shape of it behind everything.

Still, tonight’s not about what’s next.

Tonight is about the now.

The two of you walk into Gampel together for a game against South Carolina, the final non-conference home game of the season. You’re filming as always. Azzi’s in uniform, headphones in, locked in. She slows near the tunnel just enough to let your shoulder brush hers.

You catch her eye.

She mouths, “Watch this.”

And you do.

She drops 27 points. 6-for-7 from beyond the arc. Four assists. Two steals. One dagger of a three with a minute left that sends the crowd into a frenzy.

And when she walks off the court, towel around her neck, teammates bumping her shoulder, she doesn’t look for the ESPN cameras or the press row.

She looks for you.

And when she finds you—camera down, hands shaking just a little from trying not to scream during that final shot—she smiles like she already knows what you’ll say.

But you say it anyway. “Jesus Christ, Fudd.”

She laughs.

Then steps in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Right there. Right in front of everyone. The crowd still buzzing, the team still cooling down, the band still playing. No hesitation. No secrecy. Just her lips against your skin and her hand resting at your side like it’s home.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. She’s yours. And she always has been.

The confetti’s still falling when she finds you.

She should be somewhere else. On the stage. On the podium. With the cameras. Holding the Most Outstanding Player trophy in one hand and the net she cut down in the other. But instead, she’s weaving through the chaos like she’s been looking for you the whole time.

Your camera’s still rolling, half-raised, the screen shaking slightly from adrenaline. You’ve been filming through tears—yours, theirs, everyone’s. Geno’s last timeout. Paige’s final assist. Azzi’s ice-cold three with 1:13 left that sealed it. You haven’t moved from the baseline since the buzzer sounded.

And suddenly she’s there. In front of you.

Grinning like her whole body is full of light. Hair matted to her forehead, jersey drenched, eyes glassy and shining beneath the overhead lights. She’s not crying. Not yet. But she looks like if you said one thing too soft, she would.

So you don’t say anything. You drop the camera. And open your arms. She crashes into you. Hard. Not careful. Not composed. Just Azzi, all of her, colliding into you like you’re the only solid thing left in the universe. You catch her.

Wrap your arms around her and feel her fists clench behind your back as she buries her face into your shoulder. She shakes once—just once—like the win finally hit her in your arms, not when the clock hit zero.

“I did it,” she whispers. “We did it.”

“You did it,” you say, pulling her tighter. “You were unreal tonight.”

“I was scared,” she breathes, muffled against your neck. “I didn’t know if I could—”

“You did,” you cut in. “And you didn’t just play, Azzi. You led. You carried. You earned every second of this.”

She pulls back, just enough to look at you.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, laughing a little.

“So are you,” you reply.

Her hand finds yours. Palm rough with resin, trembling slightly. You squeeze three times.

Five minutes later, she’s called back to the main stage. Reporters. Flashbulbs. A camera crew trying to wedge into your space, asking her for comments. She’s too polite to ignore them but too distracted to fully focus.

Before she turns to go, she tugs your wrist. You lean close. She kisses your cheek. Quick. Sure. Public. Everyone sees it. And she doesn’t care.

“They’re gonna ask me how I stayed calm all tournament,” she says. “I’m gonna want to tell them it was you.”

You smile. “You can’t. I’ll get fired.”

Azzi shrugs, already walking backward into the media swarm. “Fine. I’ll just say I had a secret weapon.”

You call after her, “Tell them your lucky charm came through.”

She flashes a grin over her shoulder. “Always.”

Later—much later—the arena’s mostly empty. Security’s doing a final sweep. You’re sitting on the court again, knees bent, her championship hat askew on your head and your camera shut off for once. Azzi’s beside you, her legs stretched out, her shoes untied.

The net’s tied around her neck like a necklace. Her trophy rests in her lap, her fingers brushing over the engraved plate like it still doesn’t feel real. She doesn’t say anything. So you do.

“Did you hear the crowd when you hit that three?”

Azzi exhales. “Felt like everything got quiet.”

You nudge her thigh with your knee. “That’s because you silenced the world.”

She leans into you, resting her head on your shoulder.

“I didn’t want to look for you until I was sure we’d won,” she says. “I told myself I’d run to you if the buzzer went and we were still standing.”

You nod. “You found me.”

“I always will.”

You turn. Kiss the top of her head. Smell the salt, the resin, the weight of four years coming to rest all at once.

She glances down at the trophy. Then up at you.

“This is ours,” she says.

And you believe her.

Because for four years, you’ve watched her become this. Not a headline. Not a name on a graphic. Not a logo on a sneaker deal.

But Azzi. Fully. Wholly. Yours.

She didn’t declare.

Azzi Fudd, consensus top-ten pick, Most Outstanding Player, national champion, walking bucket—stayed.

Everyone thought she’d leave. Follow Paige, The mock drafts said she was gone. The WNBA teams practically started designing her jerseys. But when the time came, when the lights dimmed and the confetti settled and the press release was ready to drop, she looked across the kitchen table at you in a hoodie and sweats and said, “I’m not done here.”

And she stayed. One more year. One more season at UConn. One more chance to wear that jersey with the same grace and grit she always had. One more year of being the leader, the big sister, the captain.

You didn’t try to talk her out of it. You just said, “Then we go all in.”

Because this time, you weren’t filming from the student section. You weren’t hiding behind a school media vest. You weren’t the wide-eyed kid from Hartford anymore.

You were you now.

It happened fast after graduation. The videos you’d built over four years at UConn had long outgrown the platform. Coaches shared them. Players reposted them. Parents sent them to their kids. And when networks started knocking, you told them no.

Because you didn’t need a desk job in a studio. You were already building something better. You went independent.

Self branded. Self scheduled. Self funded. You called it Court Vision—a solo platform for women’s basketball storytelling. You didn’t just cover stats. You covered rhythm. Identity. Psychology. You saw what others missed. That same calm voice you used in dorm rooms was now playing in thousands of ears across the country.

Everywhere you went, players greeted you like family. Coaches asked if you could send your breakdowns. Parents told you their daughters learned the game watching your videos. You had press credentials at every arena. Interviews on every court.

You weren’t just in the room anymore. You were the room.

And yet—even with all the traveling, all the acclaim—when UConn’s schedule dropped, the first date you circled was Storrs.

Because Azzi stayed. And she was yours.

You fly back on a Thursday. The gym smells the same—pine and sweat and polish and history. You show your credential at the tunnel and get waved through with a nod. No questions. Everyone knows you by now.

Geno’s mid-practice, yelling about tempo. KK is courtside talking to her phone sipping a smoothie. But you don’t look at anyone else.

She’s there.

Number 35. Ponytail flying. Eyes locked in.

Still Azzi.

She hits a three off a staggered screen, doesn’t even glance toward the bench—but she sees you. Feels you. After the whistle, she jogs over like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just come from a courtside interview in Atlanta the night before. Like you don’t have a flight to L.A. in three days. She stops short of touching you. Still sweat-soaked. Still in game mode. But her eyes burn like fire under soft lashes.

“I was wondering when you’d show,” she says.

You smirk. “Had to see the return of the queen in person.”

“Is that what your analysis is gonna say?”

You tilt your head. “Only if you make it worth it.”

Azzi narrows her eyes. “You want a quote?”

“I want a win,” you say.

She laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m still your girl.”

You raise an eyebrow. “UConn’s princess, technically.”

Azzi steps a little closer, low and quiet.

“But only yours after the buzzer.”

After practice, you sit in the bleachers while she finishes her lift. Geno walks past you muttering, “If she plays the way she smiles at you, we’ll win by 40.”

You shout back, “She usually does.”

When Azzi joins you, towel around her neck, hair damp, you hand her the protein bar you brought from a gas station in Chicago.

“Romantic,” she says, unwrapping it anyway.

You kiss her cheek. “You still owe me that postgame.”

She nods. “I’ll give you the best quote of your career.”

“You promise?”

She grins.

“Only if you stay the night.”

You didn’t think it could top the first one.

The chaos, the confetti, the hugging, the laughing, the relief. The night she hoisted the trophy with sweat-slicked hands and kissed your cheek in front of thousands like there wasn’t anything left to hide.

But this year? This year, it was different. Because it wasn’t about proving anything. It was about finishing everything right.

Azzi Fudd. Fifth-year senior. Leader. Anchor. The face of UConn’s redemption arc. Back-to-back championships. Back-to-back Most Outstanding Player. Twenty-nine points. Seven rebounds. Five assists. No missed free throws. And a quiet dominance that wove the whole game into something sacred.

You stood behind the press row, camera at your side, heart pounding harder than it ever had. Not from nerves. But from knowing.

Because you’d already decided. Tonight was the night.

You let the postgame chaos swirl without you.

You held your camera when she smiled for photos, laughed when KK fake-posed with her and said “This is your last chance to change your mind,” and nodded quietly when Geno found you afterward and muttered, “She’ll always be ours, but she was yours first.”

But you didn’t ask for a moment yet. Not until later.

After the crowd filtered out. After the media cleared. After the net was around her neck again and the trophy sat cradled in her arms like it had always belonged there.

You found her in the tunnel. Still in her jersey. She lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey,” she said, breathless. “Did you see that pass in the third—”

You kissed her. Right there. One hand on her cheek, the other in her hair. And she melted into it, into you, the arena dim and echoing around you.

You pulled back only far enough to whisper, “Get dressed.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m taking you out.”

“Now?”

You grinned. “Right now.”

You don’t go far.

A quiet rooftop. Soft lights strung along the railing. The city buzzing far below. A table set with takeout containers of her favorite pasta because you knew she’d be starving, and a chilled bottle of sparkling cider because she doesn’t drink and you remember everything she ever said in passing.

She raises an eyebrow when she sees the setup.

“What is this?” she asks, smiling.

You shrug. “Just a little postgame celebration.”

She walks closer. “You did all this today?”

You nod. “I knew you’d win.”

Azzi stares at you. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

She laughs. “Unfortunately.”

You sit. Eat. Talk about everything but the game. You remind her of the first time you saw her live, back in that dusty high school gym. She reminds you that you couldn’t make eye contact with her until October of sophomore year.

And then, after she’s scraped up the last bit of marinara sauce with a crust of bread and leaned back in her chair, happy and full and tired in the best way—

You stand. Reach for your jacket pocket. Her brow furrows. You step in front of her. She freezes. And the world disappears.

Your hand is shaking. You can’t even help it.

She’s already gasped, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and wet before you’ve said a single word. And your voice—your voice cracks before it can carry the first line.

“Sorry,” you breathe, blinking up at her. “I had a whole speech. I practiced. I swear I did.”

She doesn’t say anything. She’s holding her breath.

“I’ve loved you since before I could say it. Since before I knew what it was. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t just another fan, or another lens, or another voice trying to tell your story.”

Your throat catches again. You pause. Try to keep it steady.

“You’ve made me better. Kinder. Quieter. Stronger. You’ve taught me how to lead without shouting. How to stand still and still be powerful. You’ve taught me what it means to stay. To love even when it’s hard. Even when we’re tired. Even when the whole world is loud.”

She’s crying now. Quietly. Openly.

“I don’t care where you play next. I don’t care what city, what team, what coast. I just want to be there. In the front row. Behind the scenes. Next to you. Always.”

You open the ring box and kneel. Her hands fly to her mouth again.

“Azzi Fudd,” you say, voice breaking, “will you marry me?”

She doesn’t say yes right away. Because she’s already on her knees. Already wrapping her arms around your neck. 

Already crying into your shoulder, whispering— “Yes. Yes. God, yes.”

The city spins beneath you. But you don’t feel it. Just her. Just this. Just forever starting now.

The sun pours into your room like it's in on the secret.

It catches the edge of the champagne colored blanket half-tangled around your legs, brushes over the takeout containers you were too love-struck to clean up last night, and settles—gently, reverently—on the girl curled up on your chest.

Azzi.

Still in your hoodie. Her bare feet tucked beneath the blanket. One hand draped over your stomach, the other curled near her face. And on that hand, a glimmer.

The ring. She hasn’t taken it off. Not even to sleep. You stare at it for a long time. The way it fits. The way it already belongs there. Like it always has. You don’t want to move. But your heart is too full. Your chest feels swollen with words, with memories, with every version of you that never thought this could happen. So you ease out from under her, careful, reverent, like you’re slipping out of a church pew mid-hymn.

You grab your phone. Sit by the window. Open your camera app. And press record.

The video starts with the sun on your face. You’re in a hoodie. Hair messy. Eyes red in the soft way that comes from crying for the right reasons. Your voice is low. Calm. Familiar.

“Hey,” you say. “I don’t really know where to begin. So I’ll start where I always do. With a game.”

You pause. Glance out the window. Then look back at the lens.

“Last night, UConn won its thirteenth national championship. And if you know me—if you’ve followed me, or watched anything I’ve ever posted—you know what this team means to me.”

You take a breath. A real one.

“But last night was more than that. Last night was the end of a promise I made to myself a long time ago.”

You tap your screen. The footage cuts.

To your UConn acceptance video.

You, five years younger, sitting in your childhood bedroom. Hartford skyline through your window. A UConn pennant behind you. You’re holding your laptop with your acceptance letter on the screen, eyes wide and shimmering.

“I’ve been going to games since I was a baby. I’ve watched legends on that court. I don’t know what the future looks like, but I do know this—UConn women's basketball raised me. Also—minor detail, but—if I do happen to marry a UConn women’s basketball player… nobody be surprised.” You wink at the camera, shrugging. “Just saying.”

You, now, smile faintly in the corner of the screen as it cuts back to you in present day.

“That was a joke at the time. Kind of.”

You glance over your shoulder. Off screen. Your voice softens.

“But some dreams… they’re quiet. They live in your chest. They follow you until you’re ready to meet them.” You call out, “Z?”

There’s rustling. A sleepy groan. And then—her. Azzi steps into frame, barefoot, wrapped in your blanket, hair a mess, ring glinting on her left hand. She blinks at the camera.

“Wait—are we filming?” You nod. She groans, laughing. “You couldn’t wait?”

You smile. “I didn’t want to forget this part.”

She slips into your lap. Tucks her face under your chin. Her hand rests on your chest, just over your heart. The ring sparkles. It’s not the centerpiece—but it doesn’t have to be. She is.

You speak again. Voice thicker now.

“She said yes.” A pause. “I asked Azzi to marry me last night.” Another beat. “And she said yes.”

Azzi leans up, kisses your cheek, and whispers, “Of course I did.”

You laugh, blinking fast.

“She’s the one I made videos about when I didn’t even know I was writing love letters. She’s the one who saw me before the rest of the world did. She’s been my constant. My compass. My favorite player—and my favorite person.”

Azzi nudges your chin. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Too late,” you mumble.

You let the silence sit for a moment. Let the footage breathe. And then you say, “I started this journey with a camera and a dream. And now I get to spend the rest of my life beside the person who turned both into something real.”

Azzi squeezes your hand. You look into the camera one last time.

“I loved UConn before I knew what love was. And somewhere between the student section and the court, I found the person I’ll love forever.”

Azzi rests her head against your shoulder again, smiling.

You whisper to her, not to the camera, “You’re the best story I’ve ever told.”

And then you reach out.

And end the recording.

You don’t even check your notifications at first.

You post the video, drop your phone face-down on the kitchen counter, and walk back to the bedroom, where Azzi is wrapped up in a hoodie and blanket like a sleepy human burrito. She smiles as you crawl into bed next to her and whisper something about needing more hours in the day.

You fall asleep with her tucked under your arm, her ring glinting in the soft morning light like it’s always belonged there.

By the time you wake up, the world has changed.

You fumble for your phone, half-asleep, and finally open TikTok.

The video’s at 3.1 million views. You blink. Refresh. 4.2 million. The comments are… unhinged. Emotional. Beautiful.

Azzi watches it all happen from next to you. She’s curled into your side, watching you scroll through your mentions, her chin on your shoulder.

“You didn’t think it’d blow up like this, huh?” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw.

You shake your head slowly. “I thought a few people might smile. Cry a little, maybe. I didn’t think it would turn into… this.”

Azzi hums. “Think the whole world’s been waiting for us.”

You glance at her. “Are you okay with it? With it being this public?”

She holds your hand, looks at the ring on her finger, then at you.

“I’m not hiding you,” she says. “Not ever. If the whole world sees it? That’s just proof I got it right.”

You lean in and kiss her. Soft. Certain.